


Winter

by vintagenoise



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, F/M, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagenoise/pseuds/vintagenoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dallon Weekes is lost, and doesn’t know it. He’s a college drop-out getting by on warehouse wages and overly optimistic dreams. He wants to break out of the dreary little town he lives in, find success the way everyone else in the Reagan era has, but in the back of his mind he knows: that lovely bass guitar he’s been saving up for won’t be enough, especially when he’s pushing thirty. After a drunken encounter with Brendon, his naive, cheery new boss, Dallon starts to look at things a little differently. Brendon is not what he seems to be on the surface, and Dallon is the only one who can see that. This will be the long winter that changes Dallon’s life. For better, or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not That Kind of Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Every song referenced will be provided with a link; I highly recommend you listen to them! Hopefully it'll make your reading experience much richer. The lyrics that make up the title and accompany the end of each part are from The Wedding Singer musical. The original film is one of my favorites, and I love the musical as well; I couldn't write a story set in the 80's without referencing them somehow.

There it is.

Dallon stands transfixed, staring at the bass guitar in the window, the one with the bright orange tone that matches the desert sunsets, the one that he’s coveted for the past three months, praying that it won’t one day disappear, that he hasn’t taken too long to save the money.

He’s short a hundred dollars, as of today. Paychecks come in at the end of the week, and after his rent is paid, he’s finally, _finally_ , going to be able to hold that bass in his hands and call it his own. 

He smiles, then pulls his scarf over his nose, shoves his hands in his coat pockets and turns to keep walking. Zack doesn’t appreciate tardiness, regardless of how beautiful certain musical instruments might be. A bass guitar won’t be of any help loading trucks.

 

\-----

 

“So you’re not even in a band, but you’re still going to waste money buying that guitar?” Spencer laughs, setting his sandwich on the table as Dallon pouts. “A wiser man would put the money towards a car so he doesn’t have to walk to work in the snow.”

“It didn’t start snowing until I got to work,” Dallon counters, then adds with a wide, charming smile, “and I’m sure my totally choice best friend will be kind enough to give me a ride home.”

“Don’t count on it,” Spencer smirks. “Remember, Pete’s throwing a party tonight and I plan on being there. Unless you want to come with?”

Dallon rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair with a sigh. The lunch break is half over, and since Dallon has stopped eating at work, he’s stuck with nothing to do but sit and talk to his friend Spencer, whose wry sense of humor can be exhausting. That, and Spencer never really seems to understand: Dallon doesn’t want to work at the warehouse the rest of his life, sorting and hauling and loading until his knees and shoulders are sore and he can’t see straight. Buying that bass is but the first step to something new, something more meaningful. “Once I have that guitar, I can start a band. Or join one. It’s not like I don’t know how to play, and I like to think I’m pretty good at it!” 

“Good at what?”

Spencer and Dallon glance up at the same time, wearing similar expressions of surprise; they eat upstairs in an empty office, above the lunchroom, away from the noise of dozens of older men who have been doing this for far too long. No one follows them, usually. But standing in the doorway is Zack’s new protege, the baby-faced kid who follows Zack around like a duckling follows its mother, taking notes and observing the ins and outs of the warehouse, all so he can take over once Zack moves away after the holidays. 

“What are you doing here?” Spencer asks, his confusion evident. “Where’s Zack?”

“Trying to finish paperwork,” the kid responds, all round puppy eyes and bright smiles and bushy tails. “I wanted to help, but he forced me to go on break. What are you good at?” he continues, staring pointedly at Dallon, who swallows.

“Nothing, really,” he attempts to get around the subject, turning his gaze back to the table, but the kid only laughs, eyes sparkling. Dallon had never really understood that cliche until this kid came around, how someone could have ‘sparkly’ eyes, but there’s really no other way to describe the way those dark eyes catch the light.

“Come on,” the kid says, “everyone has something they’re good at. You were the one talking about it, don’t be shy.”

“You sound like Mister Rogers,” Spencer snarks with a sly grin, and Dallon bites back a laugh. “‘Everyone has a special talent,’ come on. You’re going to be our manager. We’re adults. Talk to us like it.”

But the kid looks confused, eyebrows raised under his bangs, and the expression only makes him look younger, like a nine year-old trying on daddy’s ties. “A manager... should be encouraging. Shouldn’t he?”

Spencer laughs again, but Dallon tilts his head, wrinkles his nose. He’s worked in this warehouse for seven years, since he dropped out of San Francisco State to try and find himself, only to get lost after dropping too far into the underground gay club scene and having to pull himself out. He’s had nine managers since he started working here, none of whom were ever as eager as this kid, let alone as encouraging. “What’s your name, again?” Dallon asks, eyes narrow. The kid’s face flushes pink.

“Brendon.”

“Have you ever been in management before, Brendon?” 

Spencer cocks an eyebrow, turning to look at the trainee, who shrinks a little before bursting out in a defiant tone, “I held a supervising position at a Showbiz Pizza while I was in school.”

“Supervisor at Showbiz,” Spencer chuckles. “Well, color me humbled. No wonder you want to treat us like little kids.” 

Brendon blushes darker, his hands fidgeting. “I have a degree in management, plus that experience. So. Obviously it was good enough for this company to hire me.”

“Those guys downstairs will eat you alive,” Spencer says, shaking his head. “Maybe if you were running some little store in town with three employees, that cheery, friendly management style would work. Maybe even if you were running a retail chain store with ten employees, they’d respond to it. But not here.”

Brendon watches them both for a long moment, his face slowly falling. Dallon shakes hair out of his eyes, wondering if maybe Spencer took it too far; where Dallon holds to an empty sort of optimism that maybe tomorrow his ship will come in, Spencer long ago fell victim to a self-righteous cynicism. Kids like Brendon, who have chosen education rather than experience, are to be sneered at in Spencer’s world. They’re starry-eyed fools, coming of age during all the optimism of the Reagan presidency, wasting their money on a piece of paper that won’t teach them anywhere near as much as a few years hauling boxes or grilling burgers. Spencer, who couldn’t afford to send himself to school and ended up changing blue-collar jobs every few months just to make a few extra pennies per hour, is not a friend to higher education. 

But eventually. Brendon’s smile returns. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” he says matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest. Spencer responds with a smirk and turns back to his sandwich.

“You’ll learn,” he shrugs, taking a bite. Dallon’s stomach rumbles, but he keeps his gaze on Brendon. 

“I’m Dallon,” he says with a smile. Brendon’s blush returns, and he drops his hands. fidgeting with his fingers.

“I know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the floor. “Zack introduced us on my first day.”

Now Dallon’s embarrassed, because he doesn’t remember that. He knows that Brendon’s been underfoot for a while now, with those sparkly eyes and big smiles, but he can’t remember how long it’s been. He chews on his lower lip, thinking hard. “Was that... last week?”

Brendon’s face falls. “Two weeks ago.”

“See, this is what I’m saying,” Spencer chimes in, before Dallon has the chance to apologize “If you had a bit more... oh, Dal, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

Dallon laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “Chutzpah? Pluck? Moxie?”

“Moxie!” Spencer grins, that shiny, toothy grin that completely belies the way the world has broken him. “Moxie is exactly the word, Brendon, you need more moxie, and then you won’t get steamrollered when Zack leaves.”

Brendon looks overwhelmed, as if he’d never considered the thought that his employees may not respond to kindness and understanding, and while Spencer laughs, Dallon feels a little sorry for the kid. Because he is just a kid, who’s never had to work in an environment like this before, and has just started to realize that he’s about to be thrown to the wolves. Dallon opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the muted whistle from downstairs, signalling the end of lunch hour. When Spencer stands to throw away what’s left of his food, Dallon hurries to usher Brendon out into the hallway, near the staircase.

“Don’t take Spencer too seriously,” he says in a soft voice, eyes darting towards the door, expecting either Spencer or Zack to come crashing in and ruin everything, while Brendon still looks so flustered and uncertain. “We’ve never really had a... a honeyed boss, I guess. To use your phrase,” Dallon grins. Brendon doesn’t smile back. “So. So I guess... we can’t really say how we’ll react to it. Since we’ve never experienced it before.”

“He’s not wrong though,” Brendon argues, looking panicked. “I mean, you didn’t even remember me, so how am I supposed to get any of these guys... dozens of guys! How can I get any of them to pay attention and listen when I doubt any of them remember my name?” Brendon takes a deep breath, eyes big enough to drown in. “They never explained this in school. Getting attention. Earning respect. That’s... not really something you can include in a curriculum.”

Dallon sighs, thinks for a moment. “Here,” he says finally, after another nervous glance down the hallway, “Spencer said Pete is having another party tonight. You should come. It won’t be the whole company, most of these guys have kids and wives to go home to, but those of us who don’t have anywhere else to go will be there, and that can be your foot in the door.”

“Party?” Brendon repeats, hesitant. “Isn’t... fraternization against company policy?”

And Dallon has to laugh, as Spencer finally appears, approaches them with a curious eyebrow raised. “When the last whistle blows, screw company policy,” Dallon answers. “If I need to get drunk, I will get drunk with whoever I damn well please, and the man can’t stop me. It’s not like Zack or anyone important is ever there anyway. Come on!” He shoves Brendon’s shoulder, tries out what he hopes is an inviting grin. “You’ve only got two weeks before you take over, so you might as well try something crazy.”

Brendon glances between them, still uncertain. The glare Spencer is giving Dallon doesn’t seem to be helping the situation. But finally, Brendon straightens up and clears his throat. “Pete... Wentz? Is that right? I think I met him... so we’ll see. But you two need to get back to work. Right now.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dallon teases, before Spencer grabs his arm and drags him down the stairs, back to the loading docks. 

“The hell are you doing, inviting management to a party?” Spencer hisses once they’re out of earshot, once Brendon has retreated back to Zack’s office. “The whole point of those parties is to get away from that kind of shit!”

“Exactly,” Dallon counters. “He’s nervous, Spin, and you weren’t helping any. Maybe if he gets to know us outside the warehouse, he’ll feel better. Maybe a manager who understands how we live is exactly what we need.”

Spencer eyes him suspiciously for a long moment, then nudges him with a sharp elbow. “You need to get cable. All that Cosby Show is ruining your mind.”

“A little optimism isn’t a bad thing,” Dallon laughs. “I’m serious, though. He’s younger than just about everyone in this warehouse, and he doesn’t stand much of a chance otherwise.”

“Try explaining that to Pete,” Spencer says with a dismissive shrug, heading back towards the dock, where trucks are already starting to back in, signalling the beginning of another very long afternoon.

 

\-----

 

Pete, apparently, doesn’t have much of an issue with management crashing his parties. That, or he didn’t realize, when Brendon showed up on his doorstep in acid-washed jeans and bright yellow Chucks, that this kid didn’t work on the warehouse floor. New employees come in and out all the time, and generally Pete is kind and welcoming to any warm body.

And, as Dallon is discovering, Brendon is a very warm body.

It’s past one, and even though the party is still going strong, Dallon would normally be walking home by now, singing to himself in the dark, holding onto lampposts to stay upright. Tonight, however, Brendon had attached himself to Dallon’s hip, before suddenly attaching himself to Dallon’s lips. 

Dallon has never been the type for one night stands, especially with a co-worker. _Especially_ with a co-worker that will very soon be his boss. But at this point, he’s a little too drunk to think of all the reasons why he shouldn’t, because Brendon is young and eager, pliant and demanding, his hands gripping at Dallon’s hair and clothes. It’s hard to think at all when someone wants you so badly, and when you can’t really deny wanting that someone as well.

There’s a guest bedroom down the hall, and it’s strangely, mercifully empty when Dallon barges through the door, Brendon still tugging at his shirt, and yeah, this will be a nice break from the norm, a little vacation from the dreariness of winter, of shift work and paying the bills. Brendon pulls out of the kiss and blinks blearily at Dallon, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you...”

“What,” Dallon breathes, his hands on Brendon’s face, but Brendon gives up and slips his hands under Dallon’s t-shirt, fingertips gliding over skin. 

“Pay attention to me,” he pouts, leaning in for another kiss as Dallon shivers under his touch.

They’re a mess, a tangle of elbows and knees and teeth, and the door closes behind them before they stumble towards the bed. Dallon finally removes his shirt, then pulls Brendon’s over his head, and the kid just looks so _young_ , with his hair mussed and his eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips full and wet. Dallon runs a hand through Brendon’s hair, chuckling to himself.

“How old are you, again?”

“Twenty-two,” Brendon answers after a beat. “Why?”

Dallon chuckles again, his head swimming pleasantly, his hand tugging gently on a tuft of hair at the back of Brendon’s head. “You could pass for sixteen.”

Brendon sits up, sways, catches himself, his hands on Dallon’s chest. “Yeah, well... well you don’t look almost-thirty so, so y’know, shut up.”

Dallon stops what he’s doing, his fingers slipped through the waist of Brendon’s jeans, and glances up. “How d’you know how old I am?”

“I’s in your file,” Brendon giggles, shifting his hips against Dallon’s. “How’d you think I found this place?”

After a moment, Dallon grins and laughs under his breath, grinding back against Brendon’s movement. “That sounds like a beach... a breach of privacy.” He pops the button of Brendon’s jeans loose, guides the zipper down, dips his hand inside to finally grip Brendon’s cock, a gesture that Brendon responds to with a whimper, nails digging into Dallon’s chest.

“Don’t think you can talk about breach of privacy,” Brendon mumbles before kissing him again, rolling his hips against the movement of Dallon’s fist. 

The rest blurs in Dallon’s memory. Fumbling hands and pulling hair and soft noises and writhing hips, with wisps of something like scenes from a movie, playing too fast to really enjoy: Brendon’s warm mouth sucking the head of his dick, Brendon’s hips thrusting back against Dallon’s probing fingers, and Dallon’s pretty sure he remembered the condom, but that’s overwhelmed by just the memory of sliding into a slick hole. It’s been too long. Dallon’s not sure how long it’s been, months maybe, or years, but this feels too good, and Brendon is on his knees, burning up, melting, under his touch.

After, when they’re both sated and content, lying on the mess of sheets with their shoulders pressed together, Dallon tries to catch his breath, tries not to fall asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time his drunk ass spent the night at a co-worker’s house, but with his head clearing, listening to Brendon’s soft breath, he’s at least somewhat aware that this is not an encounter they want anyone to know about. In fact, they could both lose their jobs over this, the workplace isn’t exactly friendly to gays, and Dallon finally forces himself to sit up and look at Brendon. 

God, he’s a good-looking kid. Full lips, small shoulders, decent abs, great ass. Not really Dallon’s type, but again, the whole chance-drunken-encounter thing isn’t really Dallon’s type either, and sometimes you should just accept the plate that comes your way. Or dick. Whichever.

Still. At the heart of it, Brendon is just a kid, fresh out of college, and Dallon’s new boss. While he doesn’t regret it yet, while his brain is still heavy and his pulse still missing beats, it’s probably best to nip this in the bud while he can, before someone comes looking for them. Would anyone have even noticed their absence? Dallon can hear a ringing synth rhythm through the walls, [a minor key shifting into major for the chorus](http://youtu.be/e3W6yf6c-FA); Pete does love Duran Duran. Under the music is chatter and cheering, a few female voices, and Dallon thinks that Spencer is really the only one who might notice his disappearance.

Then Dallon takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. He’s thinking about it too much. 

Don’t think about it. It’s done.

Just go home.

“Brendon,” Dallon says, putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Time to go home.”

 

\------

 

Dallon feels eyes on his back most of the next day, and tries to ignore the urge to turn around, because he’s pretty certain that if he does, all he’ll see is Brendon at the top of the staircase, pretending to observe the laborers as they heave and haul. Really, he knows Brendon is young, but twenty-two is definitely old enough to know what a fling is and how to behave after one.

To be fair, though, Dallon is also old enough to know better than to sleep with his boss. 

Alcohol makes you do stupid things. It’s still no excuse.

It’s not until the final whistle blows, when Dallon is in the locker room picking up his backpack, reciting a mantra in his head of _One more day_ (until pay day, until the weekend, until he can finally buy that beautiful bass guitar...), that Brendon approaches him. 

“Can I talk to you?” he asks in a quiet voice. Spencer, shrugging on his beige Members Only jacket, gives Dallon a questioning look, and Dallon can only sigh. So much for this getting swept under the rug and forgotten about; now Spencer will spend all day tomorrow trying to get Dallon to tell him what Brendon wanted to talk about. Subtlety isn’t Brendon’s strong point.

“Fine,” Dallon answers casually, buttoning up his coat and giving Spencer a quick farewell wave, before following Brendon back out to the empty warehouse floor. “What?”

Brendon hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot, gripping his clipboard like he’s afraid it’ll fly away and leave him unprotected. Dallon crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow, waiting patiently.

“I, just...” Brendon swallows, “we’re not going to talk about it?”

“About what?” But Brendon suddenly looks panicked, so Dallon sighs and drops his arms. “You do realize we could both lose our jobs over what happened, right?”

Brendon blinks at him, his eyes slowly widening, before glancing up at the second floor, where Zack is still doing paperwork. “Then... let’s go somewhere else.”

“Or we could just forget about it and move on with our lives.”

Without warning, Brendon’s eyes lose their sparkle, and something stings in Dallon’s chest. Okay. Maybe he’s already in too deep, because this kid should never not be smiling and Dallon should never be thinking that way about him. 

“Fine,” Dallon sighs. “Where do you want to go?”

Something glimmers in Brendon’s eyes, and whatever it was that pierced Dallon’s chest starts to perk up again. This doesn’t bode well at all. And it doesn’t help any when Brendon suggests going to his apartment nearby, and Dallon agrees to tag along.

The building is nicer than Dallon expected, though he’s polite enough not to ask if Brendon can actually afford the kind of place that has security gates and a courtyard that’s probably quite lovely in the spring. He doesn’t know what management makes. Considering how little Dallon makes for his backbreaking work, he actually wouldn’t be surprised if the company paid management that much more.

Brendon lives on the top floor, and has to take an outdoor staircase to his corner apartment. Dallon wonders how safe or smart that is when it snows. At least his own building, despite its ugly, brick exterior and dirty lobby and tiny windows, has a working elevator. But Brendon doesn’t seem to mind, so maybe it’s not as bad as Dallon is making it out to be in his head.

“Oh,” Brendon gasps as he puts the key in the lock, and turns to Dallon with a guilty expression. “You’re not allergic to animals, are you?”

“No?” Dallon raises an eyebrow. “Actually, I have a cat.”

“Good! ‘Cause I do too.” Brendon opens the door, and a slender, black cat is sitting patiently inside, watching the door with big blue eyes, and Brendon smiles, standing back to let Dallon in first. “That’s Sarah. She’s probably hungry.”

“You gave your cat a people name?” Dallon questions, tilting his head at the cat; she responds with a head tilt of her own. Brendon shrugs as he shuts the door behind them, taking off his coat and gesturing to Dallon’s, to hang them up side by side.

“‘Sarah’ always reminded me of witches. Black cats and all that, you know.” He slides past Dallon into the kitchen, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a bag of food. Sarah’s ears twitch, and she manages to contain her excitement as she trots into the kitchen with a cheerful cry, which makes Brendon laugh. “What about your cat?” he asks, placing Sarah’s bowl on the floor. “Should we make this quick so you can get home to feed it?”

“She can wait, I guess,” Dallon answers without thinking, then frowns when he realizes the opportunity he just missed. “Or, well... no. No, she can wait. Won’t kill her if dinner’s a little late tonight.”

“What’s her name?” Brendon continues, smiling, leaning against the kitchen counter. Dallon rubs the back of his neck, tries to pretend he’s not admiring Brendon’s lean form, the way his hips are angled just so.

“Breezy,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “She’s a chocolate tabby.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Brendon hums. Dallon clears his throat, steps back, glances around. The apartment is small, sparsely furnished. The front room is dominated by a TV, carefully placed next to a turntable and speakers, all surrounded by milk crates full of albums. Dallon frowns when he notices the wrinkled blanket and folded pillow on the sofa, then glances back at Brendon; the kid is still smiling, but suddenly the dark circles under his eyes are that much more noticeable. Doesn’t he sleep?

But maybe that’s not any of Dallon’s business.

“What did you want to discuss?” he asks in a low voice, his hands still tucked into his pockets. Brendon’s smile fades slightly, but he pushes away from the counter, leads Dallon to the sofa and takes a seat. Dallon doesn’t follow suit. 

“I guess... I just...” Brendon sighs, shaking his head. “I’ve never really done the whole... get drunk and sleep with a stranger thing before. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

Dallon shrugs. “It happens. You pray your condom worked, and if you don’t catch anything, you move on. That’s the point, isn’t it? Relieve some tension, no strings attached. That’s how we live, us homos. It’s how we’ve always lived.”

Brendon hesitates before glancing at the floor. “Yeah. I guess.”

And it clicks. Dallon gets it. He stares at Brendon for a moment, then grins, taking the seat next to him, and Brendon grabs his pillow, blinking curiously at him. 

“You planned that,” Dallon says, still grinning. “It wasn’t just a random encounter at all, you... you sought me out.” Brendon’s eyes grow large, a blush creeping up his face, which he tries to hide behind a pillow. “Sneaky thing!” Dallon teases, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I should sue for sexual harassment after all.”

But Brendon is still flushed up to his forehead, those dark and shining eyes peering over the pillow, held tight against his chest almost like a shield. And Dallon sighs, shakes his head. 

“How did you even know?”

“Know what,” Brendon murmurs, “that you’re gay?” Dallon nods, and Brendon continues, “I assumed. You look me in the eyes all the time, so, I don’t know. It was probably actually more hope than assumption.”

“That’s not really a smart way to go about doing things,” Dallon says sensibly, though he can’t help smirking a little. “If you had been wrong, you probably would’ve lost your job.”

Brendon shrugs, his face still hidden behind the pillow. “I was drunk. Obviously, neither of us were thinking too clearly.”

A truth that Dallon has to concede to. He’s honestly not sure if he’s thinking clearly at all anymore, considering he’s actually sitting here in Brendon’s living room, Brendon’s cat purring at his feet, still watching the way Brendon watches him from behind the pillow. Dallon sighs and reaches over to gently tug the pillow from Brendon’s arms. “I’m guessing, since you went to the trouble to pursue me, that you’re not part of the gay scene here in town?”

Brendon blinks at him, and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

Dallon does. He spent a few years chasing hunks at clubs before deciding to make more practical purchases with his money, like making sure Breezy had food, and the heat could stay on during the winter. Like saving up for that beautiful, perfect bass he was going to finally buy tomorrow afternoon. But he still knows, all the clubs and hangouts are the same now, he could tell Brendon all about them.

But for some reason, he can’t see Brendon doing well at the clubs. Dallon hadn’t been much older or wiser when he’d started his nightly excursions either, but there is an innocence to Brendon that could either drive other men away, or attract the wrong sort.

Not that Dallon has any authority over who Brendon chooses to sleep with.

Nor that he cares. Really.

He clears his throat, trying to figure out how to word what he wants to say next. “You’re... well, then. Maybe. Maybe we could work something out.”

Brendon raises an eyebrow, and a lock of gelled hair falls over his forehead. “Like what?”

This is really stupid and risky. But it’s also an opportunity that Dallon can’t bring himself to pass up. “Like an arrangement. Where we can both get what we need from each other.” Brendon’s other eyebrow goes up, and his cheeks start to flush again, that sparkle in his eyes making a stunning return. “I mean, we’ll have to set some ground rules, to protect ourselves, but-”

“Ground rules?” And suddenly all the hope in Brendon’s face disappears. “What are you... I don’t understand.”

“I just,” and Dallon can feel himself blushing too, because he’s realized what Brendon had initially thought he was offering. “you know, it can be hard. To meet other guys... like us. No time, no money, no energy, so... since we’re both here and willing, why not take advantage of that?”

Brendon furrows his brow; another lock of hair falls free. “You mean... like a sex thing?”

“Yeah,” Dallon breathes, relieved. “Yeah, we just have to be careful. No one can know. But I think we could pull it off if we just set a few rules. It’d be fun. It’d be...” He pauses, biting his lower lip. “It’d be different.”

And Brendon’s face is blank. The excitable kid that had so far been an open book had suddenly thrown up his walls, and just as Dallon is starting to think he’ll be rejected, Brendon mumbles, “What rules?”

“Like. We can’t be friendly at work, or work-related events. Obviously.” Brendon is young, just beginning his career, he hardly needs to be blacklisted before he can even have a chance to prove himself. Dallon could probably slink away to some other horrible, back-breaking job with shit pay. Brendon deserves a chance. “No hanging out or dates or anything like that. We can’t risk making this more than sex, because then it’s harder to keep secret. And... and no spending the night after.” Dallon glances at his hands, then back at Brendon. “That’ll keep us from getting too attached.”

Brendon remains expressionless in a way that makes Dallon feel guilty for no reason. He clears his throat, waiting for Brendon to make some sort of gesture or movement to prove that he’d even heard a word Dallon had just said. It takes a long moment, but Brendon finally smiles. Slowly. Deliberately. And says, “Okay. That makes perfect sense. Let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” Dallon asks, skeptically. “If you’re not comfortable-”

“No, come on,” Brendon laughs, “it’ll be totally tubular! No-strings-attached sex with a hot guy, I’d be stupid to turn it down.”

“Really?” This kid that’s going to be Dallon’s boss in a matter of days, that Dallon just entered a sexual relationship with, is still talking like a high schooler, and now Dallon’s the one having second thoughts. “I just... don’t want you to take the risk if you don’t think it’s worth it. You don’t have to do anything to appease me, it’s just... a suggestion.”

“It’s worth the risk,” Brendon says without hesitation, and his smile finally meets his eyes. “Don’t worry about that.”

Dallon watches him for a while, then leans in close, brushing his nose against Brendon’s, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, his breath, and Brendon blinks rapidly, brow furrowing. “What,” he manages, before Dallon’s mouth closes over his own. 

Hands start to move: Dallon’s grip at Brendon’s neck and face, and Brendon’s rest on Dallon’s chest. The kiss doesn’t even last long enough for Dallon to need a breath; Brendon pushes him away after no more than a few seconds. The kid’s face is flushed pink, his lower lip trembling even as his eyes shine.

“Don’t,” Brendon almost giggles, “Don’t you have a cat to feed?”

Dallon frowns, then rolls his eyes. “She can wait another hour.”

But even as he moves to kiss Brendon again, his hands creeping over Brendon’s torso, Brendon giggles again, pulls away, shaking his head. “No,” he says, shuffling away from Dallon and attempting to straighten his shirt. “Not... no, you need to go home and feed Breezy.”

Dallon can only watch as Brendon stands and slips out of his dress shoes, padding back to the kitchen. Sarah rubs against Dallon’s ankles, purring loudly, and he reaches down to absently scratch behind her ears. He’d thought he’d figured Brendon out, or at least as much as he needed to, but no. Maybe this arrangement isn’t such a good idea after all. He gets up and goes to stand in the kitchen’s archway, Sarah following on his heels. “I thought... we just agreed to this whole thing, I thought we’d get to try it out. You know?” 

Brendon pulls a chipped bowl down from his cabinet, and inches away when Dallon reaches for his arm. “Don’t be so desperate, Dallon,” he says, turning to the fridge. “It’s unattractive. I’ll call you when I feel like meeting up.”

“I never gave you my number,” Dallon points out, but Brendon only grins at him.

“I’ll pull it from your file.”

Like Pete’s address, and Dallon’s birthday. Dallon sputters for a moment, then shakes hair from his face. “You know, I’m not sure how I feel about the power arrangement here.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you had sex with your boss.” Brendon turns on the stove, puts on a pot of water. “Later days!”

Even Sarah seems to be smirking as Dallon takes his jacket and makes his way out the door. He’s going to regret this whole thing. He can tell.

 

\-----

 

With his paycheck in hand, Dallon grabs Spencer as soon as the five o’clock whistle blows, and drags him along to the music store. 

“I still think you should hold onto that money and buy a car,” Spencer says dryly, as the store owner takes the guitar out of the window and hands it to Dallon. “And isn’t that an electric? Do you even have the money for the amp?”

“Yes,” Dallon snaps, then returns to admiring the bass. _His_ bass. This gorgeous, orange piece of work is _his_ now, at long last. “She’s beautiful,” he coos, running his hand down the neck and playing a few notes. Spencer makes few more comments under his breath, something about strings and electric bills, but Dallon ignores them. “Come on, Spin, don’t tell me you never dreamed about being in a band.”

“Sure I did,” Spencer shrugs, “I even played drums in high school. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could be any sort of success at it.” He runs his hand over a shelf of sheet music, pausing when he comes across a display of drumsticks. “I mean, just think about the songs that they keep playing on the radio these days. Pointless lyrics, a synth background and a cute girl who can’t sing: Madonna, Debbie Gibson, Jody Watley, that stupid Belinda Carlisle song they won’t stop playing...”

But Dallon isn’t listening. “You can play drums?”

Spencer pauses, then sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Dal, don’t even start.”

“That’s... Spencer! _We_ could start a band!”

“No can do, so stop.” Spencer holds out both hands, takes a step back from where Dallon is practically dancing with excitement. “Look, what would we even do with a band? Where would we practice, where would we get songs to perform, and where would we perform them? It’s not as easy or as cheap as you think it is, Dallon! Besides, what could we do on our own? A bassist and a drummer,” he snorts. “Casey Kasem will be singing our praises on the Top 40 by summer.”

Dallon doesn’t appreciate the cynicism or the sarcasm. “It’d be fun, is all,” he says sullenly. “It’d be a change of pace. Wouldn’t that be nice, Spencer? To have something to do after work besides drink?”

Spencer shrugs again, and puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Eh. I like drinking.”

After a deep breath, Dallon decides not to focus on Spencer’s pessimism, and instead returns to his new bass. The owner helps him through picking out a decently priced amp, and even throws in a cheap case for free. Dallon is delighted; being able to carry that beautiful instrument out of the store and know it’s his... it’s uplifting. It gives him hope that maybe, with some patience and determination, things can change after all.

“It’s just a _guitar_ ,” Spencer says with a grunt, having been recruited to help haul the amp to Dallon’s apartment. “And seriously, the car should’ve come before the two-ton electrical equipment.”

Dallon rolls his eyes, turning to grin at Spencer. “That amp weighs fifteen pounds at the most, so stop complaining. You lift more than that at work on any given day.”

“Not for five blocks,” Spencer grumbles, but Dallon ignores him. Spencer just likes to complain; Dallon’s known that since they met, and there’s no reason to expect him to change now.   
Spencer finally taps out when they reach Dallon’s building, because the elevator is slow and rickety. It hasn’t failed yet, but the age of the building makes Spencer nervous. “I’ll see you Monday,” he says with a wave, as Dallon takes his cargo into the elevator. “Good luck with your, um... your new life.”

Dallon doesn’t miss the sarcasm, and he holds the door long enough to yell after him, “I’ll get you in this band, Spencer Smith, just you wait!”

He can hear Breezy meowing and scratching at the door when he arrives, which isn’t unusual, but as he puts the amp on the ground so he can reach for his key, he hears something else that _is_ unusual: the telephone ringing. 

Maybe it’s just his mother, or one of his brothers, but his family calls so rarely that Dallon ends up hustling and running through the door anyway, and still has his bass in hand, the amp sitting outside the open door, as he picks up the phone. “Hullo?”

It’s his mother and his father’s sick. It’s his brother and one of his nieces is hurt. It’s the landlady and he’s being evicted because Breezy cries too loud when he’s not home.

“Oh, so you are home. Good!”

It’s Brendon. Dallon’s pulse slows, and he lets out a sigh of relief. “I just walked through the door. What can I do for you, sir?”

While Brendon laughs, Dallon glances at the door again. Breezy has made her way out into the hallway, and curled up on top of the amp, as if to claim it for her own. “Well,” Brendon’s voice is slow and thoughtful, “what are your plans for tonight?”

_Feed my cat and play bass until my fingers bleed_ , Dallon wants to say. “Nothing,” is what he says. “Yet.”

Something about Brendon just draws him in. Makes him forget about everything, all the bad and all the good, however little good there might be. Brendon overwhelms it. Overwhelms Dallon. And while Dallon can’t figure out why, he’s not entirely sure he wants to know either. 

“Did you want to come over tonight? Try out our arrangement?” asks Brendon.

Dallon glances at Breezy again. She opens one green eye and twitches her tail, as if she can read his mind and disapproves completely. 

“Just let me feed Breezy,” he answers, setting the bass on the counter. “I’ll be right over.”

 

\------

 

“Okay,” Dallon gasps, sliding his hands up Brendon’s chest, ignoring Brendon’s whine when his hips stop moving. “I can’t fuck you to this song.”

Brendon gives him an incredulous look, his forehead shiny with sweat. “Are you fucking kidding me, I’m _this_ fucking close, you can’t stop now, Dallon, please, please,” his words start to slur together and he reaches for Dallon’s waist, starts to roll his hips on his own, “please don’t stop now.”

Brendon likes to have background noise when Dallon comes over, and usually, it’s either an LP from his collection (which Dallon generally approves of), or they get so distracted that Dallon even forgets the music is there. But tonight, Brendon had the radio on, and Dallon had been on him so fast that there was no opportunity to change it. 

For the past two weeks, they’ve been meeting up for sex any time they felt like it, and it’s been good enough that Dallon could overlook or even enjoy whatever melody was floating around them. But not this song.

“His voice grates my nerves,” Dallon argues, pushing hair out of his eyes. “I just-” Brendon’s finger presses to his lips, cutting him off just as that [ridiculous, howling chorus](http://youtu.be/RriQt0ebFaw) sails out of the speakers. The kiss Brendon pulls him into is desperate and rough, and okay, maybe, _maybe_ if he stays close like this, can hear all those soft little noises Brendon tends to make, maybe Dallon can ignore it.

“Please,” Brendon murmurs, and Dallon kisses him again, picks up where he left off. 

“Be loud, then,” Dallon encourages, as he reaches between them to grip Brendon’s dick in his hand, running his thumb over Brendon’s length, and Brendon chokes on his breath, clenches around him. “Drown him out.” Brendon sputters, his cheeks suddenly pink, and shakes his head. “Why not,” Dallon demands, making a face as the song surges back into focus. “Brendon. Bren, I want to hear you.”

But Brendon chews on his lower lip, now purposely holding his silence, even as his chest heaves and his head thrashes, as his fists pull at the bed sheets until a corner of the mattress manages to snap free. Dallon grunts softly and leans into Brendon’s neck, nipping at his skin, careful not to leave any suspicious marks. This finally gets a response: Brendon moans, presses his fingertips into Dallon’s shoulderblades. The song fades away, and Dallon’s not sure if it’s because of Brendon’s noises, or the song just finally reached its end. Doesn’t matter. Brendon’s hips are bucking, and he’s allowing himself to make weak noises as Dallon strokes his cock, kisses his ear, fucks him until he comes. At this point, Dallon is so entranced that he wouldn’t notice if a church choir had appeared behind them and started singing the Hallelujah chorus: he presses his lips to Brendon’s and comes with a shudder within moments.

This part is routine by now. They stay entwined until their breathing slows, at which point Dallon pulls out, carefully removes the condom, ties it and tosses it before flopping on his back, his knuckles brushing against Brendon’s ribs. They lay quietly in the dark for a moment longer, and now the radio is playing the much more tolerable [George Harrison](http://youtu.be/ipt1_N-6cl4), which makes Dallon’s foot tap until the bed shakes, and Brendon giggles. 

“I should go,” Dallon finally says. Brendon sighs. Neither moves. “I mean,” he swallows, manages to sit up on his elbows, “tomorrow’s the big day, isn’t it? Your first day as manager.”

Zack’s last day was the Wednesday prior; the warehouse’s poor excuse for a Christmas party ended up doubling as a final good-bye, since Zack had actually been a decent person who treated his employees fairly. Dallon had spent Christmas Eve alone, and most of Christmas Day at Pete’s house, smoking fatties and listening to records, since neither of them had family nearby and Dallon didn’t want to spend the day with Brendon. He didn’t like the implications. 

It didn’t stop him from spending most of yesterday and today with him, though. Only in bed, of course.

“I should let you sleep,” Dallon nods, swinging his legs out of bed and going to search for his clothes, pulling them back on as he finds them. There’s a soft noise just before the light comes back on, and Dallon glances up from his jeans, blinking at Brendon’s form on the bed. The kid’s skin is still flushed and glowing and just so goddamn tempting that when Brendon smiles shyly (coyly? Dallon can’t tell the difference, if there is one), it takes all his willpower not to pounce on him again. 

“Who needs sleep,” Brendon chuckles. “You could stay, you know.”

Dallon sighs. “No. You know I can’t.” 

“Come on. Having sex all night isn’t the same as sleeping over. We could do that.”

“Tempting,” Dallon grins, “but no. Go to sleep, Brendon.”

“But I don’t...” 

Dallon glances up when Brendon goes quiet; the kid’s eyes are wide and dark, his lips parted, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “What?” Dallon prompts, frowning; his departure has never caused a real issue before. 

But Brendon only shakes his head, staring at his hands. “Never mind,” he whispers, “you’re right. Go ahead. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dallon watches him for a moment longer, concerned, then shrugs his jacket on. “Okay. See you.”

The lamp clicks off as he opens the door to Brendon’s bedroom, and Sarah darts between his legs, nearly tripping him. He manages not to swear at her, pulling his jacket tight around his body as he steps into the cold night air. 

So far, Brendon has managed to keep his youthful excitement at bay. Dallon knew that first afternoon: Brendon expected something more of him, something that he doesn’t think he can give. Not in a society that scorns the idea of two men spending their lives together, where aimless teenagers can throw rocks and insults at any man who doesn’t conform to their Magnum P.I. and Miami Vice standards of masculinity. The most Dallon can feel comfortable with is monogamy, for the sake of safety, with that disease ravaging the community. Yes, Brendon is gorgeous, cheerful and bright, with a record collection Dallon could only dream of, and of course, those sparkling eyes. And sure, sometimes, just before sleep, with only Breezy to occupy the space next to him, sometimes Dallon wonders if they could be more than what they are now.

Maybe. In a different world. As it stands, just the sex is risky enough.

But it’s strange, Dallon thinks, that Brendon would suddenly start to let his more naive desires show. They managed two weeks without any problems. Maybe, now that Brendon is actually going to be running the warehouse, it’s time to end things before it’s too late. Two weeks is a decent run.  
Two weeks isn’t long enough.

Dallon reaches into the pocket of his jeans as he approaches his building, and stops walking. His keys.

Crap.

He digs deep in every pocket, pulling them out, even taking his jacket off and shaking it out before throwing it on the ground and swearing under his breath. No keys. They must have fallen out of his pants at some point, either during undressing or redressing. It’s freezing, and he has to walk the eight blocks back to Brendon’s apartment. Maybe he should have listened to Spencer’s suggestions about buying a car after all. 

Cursing himself the whole way, he makes it back to Brendon’s building, shivering roughly as he slips through the front gate and makes his way up the stairs. Maybe he’ll sleep at Brendon’s after all. Has to be better than facing this cold again, or the shin splints he’ll have in the morning.

Brendon’s probably already asleep by now, which makes Dallon hesitate before knocking on the door. He might have to spend his night out here. It’s that, or going back and trying to wake up his landlady, having to explain where he’s been. Even in this cold, the safer choice is sleeping on Brendon’s doorstep. By a long shot.

To his surprise, Brendon actually opens the door a crack, rubbing his eyes. “Dallon?”

“Sorry,” Dallon says quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hope I didn’t wake you or anything.”

“No, no.” And Sarah pads out from behind Brendon’s feet, happily weaves her way around Dallon’s ankles until he bends to pick her up; she’s warm against his chest, and purring. Brendon smiles weakly in the dark. “What brings you back?”

“I think I forgot my keys. Can I look for them, real quick, I promise.”

Brendon stands back to let him in, and Dallon thanks him profusely, rushes back to the bedroom and flips the light on. He spots his keys immediately, glinting at the foot of Brendon’s bed, and he smiles as he bends to set Sarah down, exchanging her warmth for his keys and the promise of sleeping in his own apartment. 

“Thanks,” he says again, smiling, turning to see Brendon in the doorway, but the smile drops from his face before it’s fully formed. In the light, it’s easier to see: Brendon’s red, puffy eyes, his strained grin. Dallon stands, shoves his keys in his pocket, puts his hands on Brendon’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Brendon blinks at him, still trying to smile, and shrugs away from Dallon’s touch. “Yeah. Sure, I’m fine. Just... trying to get some sleep, you know.”

Dallon’s not stupid and Brendon knows it; he knows he’s been caught. But all he does is turn his face away and sniffle.

“Is anything wrong?” Dallon tries again. Brendon just turns the lights off and brushes past him, crawling back into bed.

“Nope,” Brendon murmurs. Sarah is purring again, situating herself at Brendon’s feet. “It’s late, though, so... so I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Dallon hesitates, wondering if Brendon was really that upset with his departure, if maybe this is a regular thing after he leaves, if maybe he’s just full of himself and infatuated with the idea of being loved so desperately by a younger man.

But Brendon is already curled up under the covers, and Dallon can’t bring himself to press the issue. Even if it is his fault, he doesn’t really want to face what that might mean.

“Okay,” Dallon says softly. “Good night.”

“‘Night,” is the mumbled reply. Dallon shows himself out for the second time that night, locking the door behind him. This walk home is heavier, and although his own bed is warm and welcoming, and Breezy curls into her usual place at his side, he still can’t bring himself to sleep.

 

\-----

 

As Dallon stumbles to the coat room the following morning, he runs into Brendon. They have matching circles under their eyes, but Brendon manages to smile pleasantly, cordially, casually, before slipping away. Like nothing happened. Like Dallon hadn’t caught him crying himself to sleep mere hours ago. 

But why should he act any differently? They’re at work. They had agreed not to socialize at work to reduce suspicion. Brendon’s just following the rules Dallon had set. 

Dallon’s not sure what he expected. Awkwardness, apologies, fervent denial, who knows. Maybe he’s just in shock that Brendon can be so composed. That he can stand up on that staircase and address a group of men, mostly larger and older, as their new leader. He smiles and jokes and talks about the future, manages to hold everyone’s attention until the first trucks arrive and demand to be stocked. 

Maybe Brendon should’ve been an actor, because contrary to Spencer’s prediction, everyone seems to be buying into his enthusiasm, his youthful optimism. The crew is actually far enough ahead by noon that, with no trucks waiting at the dock, they’re actually able to take their time with the rest of the orders, chatting and running around between the aisles to prank each other.

When the lunch whistle blows, Pete and Patrick follow Spencer and Dallon upstairs to their empty office. Now that he has his bass, Dallon has resumed eating at work again, and tries to allow himself to forget what had happened the night before. A part of him wants to say something, anything, about how fragile Brendon seems, but no one else seems to have noticed it. How could they? The kid has been involved and conversational all morning, shunning his paperwork to try and get to know his employees.

“It’s a nice change,” Patrick says, resting his chin in his hand. “I mean, Zack was pretty cool, he never screwed us over or anything, but he was so focused on his own job that we never actually saw much of him. I like that Brendon seems interested in us.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, swallows a bite of his sandwich. “It won’t last though. He’s what, in his early twenties? Fresh out of college, he has no actual work or life experience, he’ll just overload himself. You watch. In a few months he’ll hide himself away in his office and it’ll be just like it was with Zack. And Joe. And Alan. And all the other guys before them.”

Pete shakes his head, opens his mouth to disagree, but Dallon tunes the conversation out, tries to focus on his Doritos. The way Brendon treats his employees just isn’t as interesting or important as what he saw last night, but who can he talk to about that? 

He’s alone in this. He has no support system. 

Maybe it really is time to end it.

When the whistle blows, they all pack up and head back downstairs, counting the hours until the end of their shift. Someone’s turned the radio on, and Spencer groans when he recognizes the tune. “God! This song just... _defines_ everything that’s wrong with music today.”

And Brendon appears as if out of nowhere, smiling like he’s never known pain or misery, and Dallon can only stare. “It’s not that bad,” Brendon argues cheerfully, “come on, Spencer, don’t you think it’s kind of sweet?”

Spencer makes a face. “It’s insipid! It’s an insult to our intelligence! Formulaic and simple...”

“Those are fancy words for someone who didn’t go to college,” Brendon teases. Spencer’s eyes narrow, and Dallon cringes; luckily, Brendon seems to realize he’s crossed a line. “Oh, just loosen up a little,” he offers, taking a few steps backwards and striking a pose before singing along, “ _[Maybe I was afraid before](http://youtu.be/NOGEyBeoBGM)_ ,” and he even manages to growl, just like Belinda, “ _but I’m not afraid anymore!_ ”

As he continues to sing, starts to dance, looking like something out of a new wave video in his pastel dress shirt and skinny tie, a crowd starts to gather. They’re all laughing, cheering a boss who isn’t afraid to be ridiculous, to be _normal_ , and even Spencer starts to smile, though he fights it at first. Eventually Pete can’t take it, joining Brendon in his dance, and it’s strange, to be in the warehouse and see everyone smiling.

And yes, it’s fun. It’s goofy and childish and endearing, to see Brendon dancing like a teenager. But all Dallon can focus on is that voice.

Just like how no one seems to notice that there is something melancholy bubbling just behind Brendon’s shining eyes, no one else seems to realize that Brendon is actually a good singer. He matches every note Belinda sings, in a robust, unwavering tone, and Dallon finally sets aside the images from last night, Brendon’s red eyes and shaky smile, and replaces them with this. With that voice. With that bright laugh and those swaying hips.

This is a boy worth the risk.

This is the voice Dallon needs.

 

\-----

 

“Who wants to go to the bar?”

Pete’s hand shoots into the air like a rocket, accidentally shoving Patrick in the packed locker room. The last whistle just went off, and all the men with kids, with wives or girlfriends, they ignore Dallon’s offer, shuffling to the door, eager to go home. But Dallon knew he could count on Pete, at least, and Pete will usually recruit Patrick, and Spencer is already waiting at Dallon’s side; Spencer never says no to a beer after work, and never really needs to be asked. 

“Great! I’ll go get Brendon,” Dallon says casually. Spencer glances at him, and the look on his face would be hilarious if hanging out with Brendon hadn’t been Dallon’s goal in the first place. “I’ll be right back.”

Brendon is upstairs in his office, and Dallon knocks quietly before entering. The kid is hunched over a pile of paperwork, his hair falling out of its perfect pompadour curl, and he doesn’t even look up until Dallon reaches over to pick up a sheet of paper. “Hey!” Brendon protests, “that’s not for you!”

Dallon smirks and shakes his head, but puts the paper back where it was. “Come out to the bar with us.”

“I can’t,” answers Brendon, his shoulders stiff. “I put all this off today, I can’t just leave it-”

“Sure you can.” Brendon drops the pen he was holding and blushes dark red when Dallon’s hand falls over his own. “You don’t have to hang out with us every day. That’s not your job. You’ll catch up tomorrow, so don’t worry about it tonight.”

Brendon glances up at him and huffs. “Who’s us? You and Spencer?”

“And Pete. And Patrick.”

“I thought you and I weren’t supposed to hang out.”

“This is a group thing,” Dallon says quickly. “Doesn’t count.”

Brendon raises a skeptical eyebrow, but doesn’t respond. After a brief moment of silence, Dallon presses his hand more firmly against Brendon’s, and asks if he’s all right. Brendon starts, blinking at Dallon with an expression almost like fear, then turns his head away.

“I’m fine.”

“Then come out with us. Please?” 

Brendon hesitates. Sighs. “Don’t beg, Dallon,” he says dryly, even as he stands and twirls his jacket off the back of his chair and over his shoulders. “It’s unattractive.”

“For someone who likes to tell me how unattractive I am,” Dallon grins, “you sure like having me in your bed.” Brendon smirks slowly.

“I never said I had good taste,” he murmurs as he tugs Dallon in for a gentle kiss, which feels much too intimate for their arrangement, but Dallon can’t help putting his hands on Brendon’s face, can’t help keeping him close, just for this moment, behind closed doors. 

Patrick is especially glad that Brendon tags along; his smile instantly grows when he sees Brendon, and he puts an arm around his shoulder and involves him in a conversation about college. Dallon had always known that Patrick was the nicest, friendliest guy at the warehouse, but he hadn’t expected him to take such a liking to their new boss. Something dark and sick swirls in his stomach, but he ignores it, because really, Patrick is just trying to make friends. Brendon is as bright and kind as Patrick, and it’s only natural that they would be drawn to each other.

Still. 

Spencer drives the whole crew to the bar, and once they’ve arrived, Dallon takes the seat on one side of Brendon and orders a whiskey sour. Patrick and Brendon are still happily chatting away about campus life, so it’s Spencer, seated on his other side, that raises his eyebrow and says, “That bad a day, huh?”

“Don’t judge me, dude,” Dallon responds casually, and Pete laughs, orders a whiskey sour of his own.

“Should never drink that hard by yourself,” he winks. “I’m here for you, Dal.”

Spencer thinks it over, then decides to join them. Patrick says that this is a bad idea, before grinning and deciding to follow suit, at which point Brendon doesn’t have much choice but to do the same.

This is friendship, Dallon decides. Good friends don’t let you get plastered by yourself.

The jukebox starts playing an overly perky Whitney Houston song, where the entire chorus describes nothing but [how badly she wants to dance with somebody](http://youtu.be/eH3giaIzONA). Spencer can’t take it, starts to rant about the nothingness that’s pervaded music, and the conversation devolves into an overly serious debate about whether or not a synth is an actual instrument, if bands like Bon Jovi and Europe are actual rock bands, if Whitney’s vocal prowess makes it okay that she only releases radio-friendly pop tunes. As the night goes on and they lose count of their drinks, a pair of girls comes to join their table, immediately attaching themselves to Pete and Spencer, and that’s when Dallon realizes he’s lost control of the situation. Brendon and Patrick are discussing the fact that Patrick Swayze sung on the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, Pete and Spencer are completely distracted by these girls with their plastic bracelets and sky-high hair, and Dallon has ended up alone with his whiskey.

“Hey,” he pokes Spencer under his ribs, only to have his hand batted away. “Spin! Spencer, hey, Spence, remember when I told you we should start a band, ‘cause we should totally start a band.”

Spencer glares at him, but the redhead in his lap suddenly realizes that Dallon exists, exclaiming, “You’re gonna start a band?!” in an impossibly high pitch, “Oh, I _love_ musicians, Spencer, what do you play?”

“Drums,” Spencer answers stiffly, his hands on her waist, “and Dallon plays bass, and that doesn’t make a band, Dallon, I told you that.”

Dallon makes a face at him. “We just need to find a guitarist and a singer, eh? Can’t be that hard, have to be tons of out of work guitarists around this town.”

“Um,” and it’s Patrick’s voice, shy and soft and slurred, “I play guitar. L’il bit.”

That, Dallon didn’t know. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Either Patrick’s blushing, or it’s the liquor turning his face that odd shade of orange. “I’m not Eddie Van Halen or anything, but I can keep up with most songs.”

Dallon is quiet for a moment, letting this information sink in. This is too easy. Why is it so easy? And before he can speak again, Spencer chimes in, “And Dallon’s a good singer.”

And that’s the real shock. Not only that Spencer is participating in this scenario, but that he thinks Dallon could be the frontman. He’s grinning, charming and annoying at the same time, when Dallon turns to look at him.  
“How do you know that?” Dallon demands, and Spencer just laughs.

“You and Pete, at his parties. Don’t you remember? You get drunk enough and Pete puts on a record and the two of you just sing away until you’re hoarse. And even though you’re drunk,” Spencer chuckles, almost looks affectionate, “you’re pretty good.”

Dallon doesn’t know what to do with this information. He’s stunned and humbled by Spencer’s attempts at delivering a compliment. Luckily, Pete steps in, pouting over his girl’s bare shoulder.

“But you don’t think I’m any good?”

“No,” Spencer says, without looking up from his drink.

Dallon glances at Brendon, who is looking right back at him, smiling gently, and Dallon smiles back. “Thanks for your confidence, Spin, but I was thinking we could have Brendon sing.”

And Brendon’s not smiling anymore. “What.”

While Spencer thinks it over, Patrick’s shyness is suddenly gone, as he jumps in excitedly: “Yes, I could see that! You were great this afternoon, Brendon!” 

“They sound completely different,” Spencer finally says, and of course he would try to be argumentative. Of course he would try to ruin Dallon’s plans without even knowing about them. “It’s like, do you want to sound like Joy Division, or do you want to sound like Kenny Loggins?”

“Wait,” Dallon can’t help laughing, “which of us is which in this comparison?”

“You’re Joy Division,” Spencer clarifies, and Brendon pouts.

“I like Joy Division _and_ Kenny Loggins.”

“No one asked you,” Spencer shoots back, and while Brendon looks offended, everyone else starts to laugh. Spencer’s little redhead slides off his lap and into a chair, but leaves her head on his shoulder as she joins in the conversation.

“I like both too, sweetheart,” she giggles, “and at least you look more like Tom Cruise than Kenny Loggins.”  
“True,” Dallon ponders, raising an eyebrow in Brendon’s direction, causing the kid to blush. “And since video killed the radio star, good looks matter more than sound.”

“Like you couldn’t pass for Matt Dillon,” Brendon scoffs, and now it’s Dallon’s face that’s turning pink. 

Everyone else laughs again, completely overlooking the tension that’s developing between them, though Dallon doesn’t miss the little smirk Brendon’s giving him, and knows that, like Spencer and Pete, he won’t be alone tonight either.

“The only option,” Spencer’s girl pipes in again, “is a showdown. I’ll be right back,” and she kisses Spencer’s cheek before swaying over to the jukebox. With her back turned, Dallon gives Spencer a look, which he immediately bristles at.

“What!”

“Do you even know her name?” Dallon teases.

“It’s Linda,” Spencer answers defensively. “Don’t judge me, dude. She is _fine_.”

Linda’s friend has engaged Pete in something that borders on second base, so neither of them even seems to notice the conversation anymore, but Linda comes back with a grin, just as a bass synth leads out from the speakers, leaking into a generic guitar riff, and Brendon groans.

“I wasn’t being serious!” He manages to laugh, but Dallon, suddenly confident after Spencer’s comments on his voice (and a few too many whiskeys), shoots up out of his chair so fast that it falls over, and even though everyone is watching, he starts to sing along:

“ _[Revvin’ up your engine, listen to her howlin’ roar!](http://youtu.be/iPYF2p-cGx8)_ ” 

And Spencer cackles in delight, “You _would_ know this song!”

Of course he would. Spencer doesn’t know about Dallon’s sexual preferences, but there’s no way a movie about naval aviators and best friends, with a beach volleyball scene, wasn’t in some way indulging homosexual fans. Especially with a man like Tom Cruise in the lead role. 

“So much for Dallon being Joy Division,” Patrick cracks, but Brendon is up and dancing as well once the chorus hits.

“ _Highway to the Danger Zone! Ride into the Danger Zone!_ ”

The bar is almost empty, so by the time their little show is over, the bartender has wandered over to see what’s going on. He’s a curly-haired punk with too many piercings, probably around Brendon’s age, but he fits right in with a group of drunk quarter-lifers who are exhausted with their own existence. 

“Ian,” and Spencer would know the bartender by name, “Ian, we’re trying to decide who would be a better singer for our band, Brendon or Dallon, who did you like better?”

Brendon drops back into his chair, smirking even as he tries to catch his breath. “Dallon was better.”

“Nope, nice try,” Dallon shoots back, “he asked Ian.”

And Ian is grinning, pushing curls out of his face as he tilts his head in Brendon’s direction. “That guy has more power. The song sucked, but I’d bet money he’s got a better range too. You can hear those Freddie Mercury high notes begging to come out.”

Brendon is blushing bright red, fervently shaking his head, “No way, no way I can sing like Freddie.”

“I’ve got _A Day at the Races_ on the jukebox,” Ian offers. “I think you could rock ‘Somebody to Love.’”

“No more singing tonight, sorry, I’m out of order.” Brendon breathes deep, tilts his head back, smiling at the ceiling. “Have your people call my people, or something like that.”

Everyone laughs, and Ian glances over his shoulder, at the clock behind the bar. “Well, it’s past closing time, but before I kick you guys out, you should know,” he pauses for dramatic effect, and can’t help grinning. “If you guys are serious about this band thing, the owner here is actually looking for live acts to perform on Friday and Saturday nights. It’s not like we’ll be getting any A&R types in this town, but y’know, it’s a start, and $150 a night to split amongst yourselves.”

Patrick looks around the empty bar, then turns back to Ian with an eyebrow raised. “You guys make enough to cover that?”

“This is a Monday, dude. The Monday after Christmas, no less. Weekends are a _very_ different story,” Ian answers with a shrug. “His hope is that a live act would bring in even more. If you do, he might even give you a raise.” He winks, stands, and flips his chair over the table top. “Now get out so I can start cleaning up.”

As expected, Pete disappears into the night with his girl, trusting Linda to Spencer’s capable hands. Even with a gorgeous redhead waiting for him, Spencer still offers Brendon and Dallon a ride home, a measure of how good a friend he is. Still, Dallon catches Brendon’s eye, and they both decline, heading back towards Brendon’s apartments with their arms around each others’ shoulders. Dallon must be drunker than he feels, because his legs won’t cooperate with his brain, and Brendon stumbles under his weight, but laughs anyway.

“Don’t you eat?” he teases, shifting Dallon’s arm to better support him; the height difference between the two isn’t making this any easier, and Dallon laughs as well.

“Only when I can afford to,” he answers, chuckling. Brendon’s face flashes with concern before he smiles again.  
“If you’d let me take you out, you could eat more often.”

“Nope,” Dallon says quickly, shaking his head. “Nope, nuh-uh, let’s not go there, now that the holidays are over, I’m fine, you don’t have to take me out.”

Brendon sighs, opens his mouth, then closes it. Dallon watches him turn his face back to the sidewalk, struggling to keep their footing. After a moment, Dallon moves his hand closer to Brendon’s face, brushes his thumb over the skin of his cheek; again, this contention, this misunderstanding. Brendon wanting more than Dallon can give. When Brendon lifts his head, the look in his eyes suggests that when Dallon behaves this way, it makes everything worse. The truth is, Dallon just wants Brendon to smile all the time. And he knows that means something, but it doesn’t matter, because even the way they’re looking at each other, when they’re this close, the way Dallon is touching Brendon’s face, it’s something that shouldn’t be done. Not even at almost three in the morning. 

Dallon blinks at Brendon, then gives up a small, crooked smile. “I really want you to front my band.”  
At first, Brendon seems disappointed, but he manages to smile back anyway. “We’ll see how you feel when you realize I’m not Patrick Swayze.”

“I thought you were Tom Cruise.”

“Tom can’t sing,” Brendon points out, digging in his pocket for his keys as they approach the gate at his apartment. Under his breath, the keys jingling in time, he starts to sing, “ _[‘Cause I’ve had the time of my life, and I’ve never felt this way before](http://youtu.be/l9BbUqHrWFI)_.”

Dallon chuckles, shakes hair out of his face. “That’s not even the song he sings.”

Brendon only makes a face, and continues the song a little louder: “ _Yes I swear, it’s the truth._ ” Dallon's next step falters as Brendon suddenly twirls under his arm, then appears before him, still holding his wrist. “ _And I owe it all to you!_ ” He finishes, pointing at Dallon, who finds he can only smile because really, this kid is such a noid, but his overwhelming charm makes it okay. Adorable, really. 

“Am I supposed to stumble back to my place, or are you gonna help me up the stairs?” He asks, smirking as Brendon shrugs.

“Up to you, hoser,” is the answer, as Brendon continues to dance to the song playing in his head, leading the way to the staircase. “You could go try to get some sleep before work, or you could spend the rest of the night with me.”

“I came all this way, seems a shame to waste the effort.”

And Brendon laughs, pulls Dallon’s arm over his shoulder again, and to be honest, at this point Dallon is half-faking his inability to walk, because Brendon is always so warm. And he knows this is exactly the wrong decision, so late at night, but he’s not sure what’s more intoxicating: the whiskey, or Brendon’s proximity. And that confusion is so deja vu by now, it’s almost a cliche.

Maybe that means something too. Maybe Dallon is being stupid on purpose. Or maybe he can’t help it anymore.  
This is dangerous.

And he still kisses Brendon on the mouth as soon as the door is open. Pushes him inside, kicks the door shut, tries to ignore Sarah’s protesting cries of hunger. And Brendon responds, grips at Dallon’s hair, invitingly presses his hips against Dallon’s as his hands slide down his back, and he pulls away with shiny, pink lips curved in a knowing smile.

“Let me feed the cat,” he murmurs, gasping as Dallon’s fingers slide under his shirt, over his stomach. “You go get undressed, let me feed Sarah and we’ll pick up here, okay?”

Dallon’s eyes widen, settle on Brendon’s, before he nods slowly and allows Brendon to slip from his grasp, heading for the bedroom, practically collapsing on the bed. There’s the promise of sex, and yes, sex is good, after a night out with friends, after music and drink and laughter, sex is the perfect way to end the night.  
But halfway through wiggling out of his pants, still laying on his stomach on the bed, hoping to entice Brendon into topping tonight, Dallon can’t reach past his knees and can’t make himself move. His eyes close and his brain protests, _no no no!_ , but his shoulders sag and his hands relax and Brendon’s bed is warm and smells like Drakkar Noir.

He thinks he hears Brendon laughing softly, feels his pants disappearing, replaced with a blanket tucked under his arms. The other side of the bed dips, and a warm hand, also smelling faintly of Drakkar, runs through his hair. Warm breath on his ear, and he makes a noise that Brendon must not hear, because Brendon starts to sing again:

“ _You’re the one thing I can’t get enough of... so I’ll tell you something..._ ”

Dallon wakes up. The room is dark, and Brendon’s asleep next to him, nestled in his shoulder. His hair is tickling Dallon’s nose, so he shifts away, slowly works his body out from under Brendon’s, and sits up.   
It’s still dark. The clock on the bedside table says ‘5:45am’ in neon red, and Dallon runs a hand over his face, takes a deep breath.

He slept over. He’d made such a big deal out of not doing so last night, and here he is, in bed with Brendon at almost six in the morning. Really the only rule he had left, and he’s broken it. They didn’t even have sex, and that makes it that much worse. Brendon is smiling in his sleep, and two of his fingers twitch, brushing against Dallon’s wrist.

Did he dream Brendon’s voice in his ear, that unfinished song? 

“Damn,” he murmurs to himself, sliding slowly out of the bed and pulling his pants and shoes back on. This is awful, such an awful thing to do after what he saw, but he grips his keys in his hand, slips out the door, and hurries to make it home before the sun starts to rise.

His landlady is already up and in the lobby when he gets in, and she raises a judgemental eyebrow in his direction, but he just grins shakily at her, and almost runs to the elevator. 

Breezy is sitting just behind his front door, her ears back, and God, poor thing hasn’t eaten in almost 24 hours. He can’t do this to her again. “If you took a shit in my shoes over this,” he says, stepping out of his shoes and opening a cabinet, picking out a can of tuna, “I honestly wouldn’t blame you.”

He doesn’t bother trying to sleep. He’s a coward and a sneak, and he scratches Breezy behind the ears as she eats, trying to at least stay in her good favor. 

“I think I’ll be okay as long as I have you,” he murmurs, seated on the floor with his back against the wall.  
Breezy only purrs.

 

\-----

 

“We’re never doing that again.”

Spencer’s just being a drama queen, and Dallon, sleep-deprived but not hunger, only smirks as Spencer takes a seat in their abandoned little office. Pete, the little jerk, had called out sick this morning, and Patrick has opted to eat out today, so it’s just the two of them on this break. 

“Did you have fun with Linda, at least?” Dallon asks casually. Spencer doesn’t respond, but the smile that appears on his face says it all anyway. 

Brendon appears in the doorway a moment later, and Dallon freezes, embarrassed and ashamed, but Brendon is still smiling at him, beaming actually, leaning against the table, and really, those pants work magic on his already mystical ass, but Dallon catches himself, focuses on his sandwich.

“Is the band a real thing or should I not even get my hopes up?” is what Brendon came to say, and Dallon now takes a bite of food and trains his eyes on Spencer, who groans.

“Are you serious?” He snaps, blue eyes narrowed. “There’s no way I’m digging my drum kit out of storage and dragging it around town for a cut of $150 a week. Not when I’ve got real work to do.”

“Don’t be such a downer,” Dallon comments, rolling his eyes. “Once you started, you’d have fun, and you know it.”

“I think someone’s never set up a five-piece drum kit.”

Dallon finishes his sandwich and tosses the wrapper in the trash. “Jeez, Spin. You’re still young. Don’t resign yourself to misery just yet, y’know?”

He can see Spencer bristling, and braces himself for a sassy retort, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Spencer rests his chin in his hand, furrows his brows, then turns to look at Brendon.

“Find a practice space, and figure out how to help me drag my shit around,” he says, “and I’ll think about it.”

Apparently, Spencer is more open to the idea than he lets on. Dallon is genuinely surprised, but Brendon is almost thrumming with excitement. For someone who didn’t want to sing, he seems to be pretty eager to start working on it too. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says before excusing himself. At the door, behind Spencer’s back, he turns to give Dallon a smile and a wave, probably intended to make Dallon feel better about his actions this morning, but instead, it only makes him feel worse. Maybe Brendon thinks he’s forgotten the other night, but he can’t. He wishes he could. He tries. But that thought sticks with him: that Brendon cries alone in the dark, and maybe it’s his fault. 

“Do you...” Dallon stops himself. Swallows. “Do you think Brendon’s okay?”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “... Yeah, I like him just fine.”

“No, no, I mean...” Dallon sighs, stares at the wall, and tries to figure out how to say this. If he _can_ say this, without compromising the secret he and Brendon are sharing. “He’s like... a broken vase that someone put back together with cheap glue.” 

Spencer just looks confused. Dallon clears his throat. “You don’t... you don’t see it?”

“He dances to Belinda Carlisle and smiles so wide all the goddamn time that I can’t believe his face hasn’t split in half,” Spencer responds slowly, as if Dallon were mentally damaged. “I have no fucking clue where you’d even get that idea.”

_Because I’ve seen a side of him that you haven’t._

But Dallon can’t say that.

  
_Tell the night to save its moonlight_  
Tell the birds not to sing  
Tell the stars in the heaven they’ve been misaligned  
‘Cause it’s not that kind of thing  
\- **[Not That Kind of Thing](http://youtu.be/mR1sZ0eePpE)** (The Wedding Singer)

**End Part One**


	2. If I Told You

Time passes, and nothing changes except the year, and Dallon spent the first ten minutes of 1988 with Brendon’s dick in his mouth, and truly, he can’t think of a better way to welcome the new calendar. 

The period of time between the New Year and when the world comes back to life is long and dreary. There’s eight hour work days, cats to feed, bass to practice (with the amp turned down low so his neighbors don’t complain to the landlady), and Brendon to sleep with. They’re closer now, resorting to pillow talk and holding hands, though Dallon still tries his best to pretend that he could leave this arrangement behind without a second thought. He thinks he could. He knows he couldn’t. 

It’s late in January now, and Spencer still sits in the upstairs office with Dallon, eating lunch together over the hum of noise downstairs. Pete and Patrick join them more often these days, and today Pete is running wild, in the middle of some long speech about some unimportant thing, when Brendon saunters through the door. Pete stops talking mid-sentence, looking surprised. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Brendon says sheepishly.

“Don’t be,” Spencer responds, “he was getting on my nerves.”

Pete makes a face at Spencer, who shrugs and doesn’t look up from his Coke. Brendon clears his throat. “I just... had an idea. For the band.”

Dallon raises an eyebrow; he’s mentioned the band a few more times to both Spencer and Brendon, but never together, and never in a tangible sense. Rent for a practice space is too high, and there’s still more equipment to buy, and Spencer’s ratty old sports car can barely fit Dallon and his bass, let alone two other guys, a few amps, stands, a guitar and a drum kit. Dallon hadn’t even been aware Brendon was thinking about the idea on his own. 

“What if we practiced here, in the warehouse?” Brendon suggests after a moment. “I mean... I have the security code and keys, so we can stay as late as we want, and keep the equipment in an unused closet.”

The room is silent, at first. Everyone stares at Brendon as if he’s just announced his raging homosexuality, though Dallon thinks the response to that might be more cold confusion, instead of the almost hopeful skepticism that Spencer starts to voice. 

“How would we get the equipment from here to the bar, though?”

“I spoke to the owner,” Brendon grins, and Dallon glances up; the kid actually cares enough about this project to take initiative like that? “They have a kit you can use, as well as amps, mics, all of that. If we’re really attached to our own stuff, or you guys don’t feel like carrying guitars a couple blocks, then I can buy a van or something.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “You’d buy a van just for the band?”

“Not a new one. Nothing that could make it across country on tour.” And just by shrugging his shoulders, Brendon reveals that he’s already been checking used cars in the area, trying to find one to suit their purposes. Dallon can’t speak, he’s so surprised. “And I can take care of other expenses too, y’know? Strings, sticks, capos, whatever.”

Brendon probably thinks he’s being generous, but there’s a sudden tension in the room. As if everyone has suddenly remembered that Brendon is their boss. He wears a tie and shiny shoes and does paperwork, while they all hunker down and try not to do any permanent damage to their backs as they load heavy boxes onto a truck.

And Brendon gets paid a lot more for his work.

Even working under the same roof, there are distinctions. There are lines that have been crossed. Patrick shifts uncomfortably, and Pete clears his throat, but otherwise the silence sticks, and Brendon doesn’t seem to notice what’s going on.

Thankfully, the whistle blows soon after, and Brendon is still grinning ear to ear, his eyes sparkling in the fluorescent light, as he says, “Think about it! Just let me know!”

On the way downstairs, Spencer turns to Dallon with a fierce look and says, “Handle this.”

“Handle what?” Dallon mumbles back, though he already knows the answer.

“He needs to understand what happened back there, and you’re the only one that can get through to him.”

Dallon bristles, tugs on the hem of his shirt, tries not to blush. “Where the hell do you get that idea from?”

Spencer only deadpans him, and walks away. Dallon wonders, if Spencer’s already noticed how close he is to Brendon, then maybe this whole thing has gotten out of control. And with Brendon still offering to buy him dinners, now he wants to pay for anything the band might have trouble getting... 

Dallon takes a deep breath, tries not to think about it for the rest of the afternoon. 

He can totally end this. Anytime he wants.

 

\-----

 

On the walk home, Brendon won’t shut up about the band. 

To be fair, Dallon is pretty excited too. But his excitement is buried under piles of anxiety and fear and concern. Embarrassment. Discomfort. He doesn’t like the idea of having Brendon essentially fund the band, and he likes it even less when he considers the implications if they continue sleeping together. Is that a form of prostitution, somehow? If he ends their arrangement, will Brendon pull out of the band and leave them hanging? And Dallon realizes exactly why these sorts of relationships aren’t allowed in the business world: if he ends it now, will Brendon take it out on him at the warehouse? Dock his pay, cut his hours, fire him?

Suddenly Brendon laughs, runs his hand through his hair, his features all aglow with bright ideas and sweet dreams. Something drops in Dallon’s chest, and he can’t help smiling back. No, Brendon’s not the type to hold grudges or exact revenge. 

He’s the type to be brokenhearted, those big brown eyes losing their sparkle. Dallon’s smile falls at the thought. 

He can’t do this.

He has to.

When did it even become this sort of emotional ordeal in the first place? Wasn’t the whole point to have a sexual partner without the emotions? A way to get off without getting involved? There’s no reason they can’t be adults about this, and if Brendon let his heart get away from him, well, that’s not Dallon’s fault, and he’s not going to feel guilty over it.

Yes he is.

And he’s not sure he wouldn’t miss Brendon as much as Brendon would miss him. 

“You’re quiet,” says Brendon, jolting Dallon back to cold air and the iron gate outside Brendon’s building. “Are you okay?”

“... Yeah,” Dallon answers softly, then shakes his head. “No. Brendon.” He puts a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, stopping him just after they step into the courtyard, and Brendon turns to look at him again, an eyebrow raised. It’s too cold for anyone to be hanging around outdoors, and all of the windows are closed, as far as Dallon can see. No one is watching. It’s like the town is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next, if Dallon can cut ties with the person who managed to bring color to his snow-white world.

“Bren, I can’t come up today,” Dallon says, then runs a hand through his hair, turns his face away. “I probably shouldn’t... ever again.”

Brendon furrows his brow. “What? Why not?”

“I just... I think. I think we need to stop.” Dallon takes a deep breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I mean, first of all... I’m not really comfortable with you paying for all this stuff for the band while we’re sleeping together. It feels a little like... I dunno. Like. You know.”

“No. Wait.” Brendon tilts his head, then laughs slightly. “You think... no! No, I just... I really like the idea of being part of something. Part of the band. And I don’t want it to be something we just talk about sometimes, I want it to actually happen. I’m stoking the fire under your ass, not buying your sex.”

“Yeah, except... except I’m not the only one who’s uncomfortable with it. And... and I think Spencer might be close to figuring out what’s going on. He already knows we’re closer than just co-workers, and I can’t... we can’t risk people knowing, Brendon.”

Dallon tries to say it with a finality, and maybe he succeeds, because Brendon starts blinking rapidly, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. Dallon takes a breath, “Bren...”

“No,” Brendon says, taking a step backwards, closer to his staircase, “no, you’re right, we shouldn’t... it’s probably already gone too far, right?”

Dallon bites his lower lip, already regretting this decision. He should’ve known as soon as he thought he could end it; if their relationship was meaningless, what even is there to end? If it was all for nothing, why does he keep thinking of it as a relationship? 

He was in too deep from the afternoon they started this. From the first time they had sex at Pete’s party. From the first time he noticed the shine in Brendon’s eyes. 

“Are you okay?” He asks finally, reaching for Brendon’s hand, but Brendon takes another step back, uses that hand to cover his face. “Brendon?”

“It’s...” And God, no, please don’t cry, “I’ll see you in the morning. Okay?” Brendon’s voice is cracking. Broken. But he runs up the stairs without looking up, struggles to open the door, then slams it shut behind him. Dallon is left alone in the courtyard, with the dead trees and yellow grass, empty dirt encased by bricks. The wind picks up, almost slapping his cheek. 

This isn’t what he wanted. What he’s feeling, it’s guilt, but it’s something else too. He’s not stupid. He knows what’s going on, the weight in his chest, how he just can’t make himself go home. 

He won’t say it. Won’t even think it. Because it doesn’t matter how he feels or how Brendon feels, because what’s the point if, in some strange future, they walk down the street hand-in-hand, only to be harassed for it? Assaulted? Getting Brendon hurt because Dallon is too selfish to let him go...

But is it selfishness? Or cowardice? And isn’t Brendon already hurt?

“Fuck,” Dallon mutters under his breath, and finally moves towards the staircase. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there, he just knows he can’t leave Brendon like this. At the top of the staircase, at the third floor corner apartment, he knocks on the door, calls through the wood, “Brendon?”

He can hear Sarah meowing on the other side, but nothing else.

“Bren? Please open the door, Brendon.”

Still nothing.

Confused, Dallon takes a step back. That night a few weeks ago, Brendon had been upset and crying, but he’d answered the door like nothing was wrong. Tried to pretend. Tried to smile. Now, nothing. 

“Brendon?” he tries again, knocking louder this time. Sarah gives up a cheerful, muffled meow, but otherwise, silence. “Jeez, Brendon, I’m sorry, can we just...”

He can’t get his priorities straight. Maybe they were completely out of whack in the first place.

Dallon is really messed up right now. A million maybes, but the only thing he knows for certain is that he needs to speak to Brendon. He can’t leave now, he can’t go home, not until he knows Brendon is okay.

“Brendon, at least come to the door,” he pleads. “You don’t have to open it, just tell me you’re okay.”

Once again, it’s only Sarah that answers, but her yowl sounds louder now. Maybe closer. Dallon presses his forehead to the door, wonders if it’s just wishful thinking, but maybe, maybe Brendon is just on the other side of the door. Standing there with Sarah in his arms. Trying to decide what to do.

“Brendon,” Dallon tries again, “please.”

The doorknob shifts. Dallon takes a step back just before the door swings open, and yes, Brendon has Sarah tucked in one arm, but he’s staring at Dallon incredulously. “Don’t,” he says, when Dallon starts to move towards him. 

“Why not?” Dallon frowns, almost pouting, a little hurt. 

Brendon shakes his head. “You know,” he sighs, “if our relationship was all about sex, it’s strange for you to be so interested in my well-being.”

Dallon’s lips tighten, and he can feel a blush rising in his cheeks, but he hopes he can pass it off as a reaction to the biting wind. 

“Can I just come in?” he mumbles. “It’s cold.”

Brendon hesitates, then steps aside to allow Dallon in. 

After Dallon hangs up his coat, he takes a moment to study Brendon, to really look at him, and Brendon almost defiantly stares back, daring Dallon to say something about his swollen eyes, the shiny trail working over his cheek, his red forehead, his sniffles. But Dallon closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts to reach over to brush the tears off Brendon’s face, only to stop himself. What gives him the right to touch Brendon now? This feels like a break-up, whether or not Dallon has any experience with such things. Brendon tilts his head towards the floor, and doesn’t speak. Dallon finally drops his hand, and sighs.

“You want to listen to some records?” he asks softly. Brendon looks up in surprise. But he nods, and leads the way to the turntable. 

They had agreed back in December, one of their rules was no spending time together, no hanging out, no dates. But they’ve already broken the rule about not acknowledging each other at work, and Dallon has come dangerously close to breaking the rule about not spending the night. So he can’t bring himself to care too much about this, even as the evening drags on, and he’s still here. Watching MTV with Brendon. Playing cards. Discussing music. Eating take-out. And all Dallon wants to do is ask if Brendon is okay, if he will be okay, but he holds it in. Waits. Patiently. For Brendon to start smiling again. 

They’re sitting on the couch, watching Bob Eubanks slip innuendoes past the censors on the Newlywed Game, when Brendon says, “Shouldn’t you go home and check on Breezy?”

These days, Dallon’s been putting extra food in Breezy’s bowl before he leaves for work. Maybe she’s getting a little fat, but at least he knows she won’t starve. “She’s fine,” he answers quietly, turning to Brendon. “I’m more worried about you.”

Brendon face is tinted yellow from the light of the TV, and he smiles slightly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Look,” Dallon continues, a bit more firmly, “I know we haven’t known each other long, and we sort of went into this whole thing not _wanting_ to get to know each other, but... I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you. In some way. You know that, right?”

For a long time, only silence follows. Brendon stares straight ahead at the TV screen, then suddenly sniffles again, his chin trembling, and lifts a hand to hide his face. “Don’t.”

“Brendon,” Dallon shifts to see him better, and puts a hand on his knee. “Please.”

“Dallon, I can’t...” Brendon lifts his head, takes a shaky breath, and finally turns to look at Dallon. His eyes are full of pain and desperation, which takes Dallon by surprise. “It’s not that simple, it’s not just you, so please. Drop it.”

“No,” Dallon says sternly, and for the first time that night, he reaches over, runs his hand through Brendon’s hair, and suddenly Brendon is crying openly, his shoulders shaking as he roughly pulls away from Dallon’s touch.

“You don’t understand,” Brendon sobs, “you won’t, you can’t, so please stop _looking_ at me that way!”

“ _What_ way!” 

“Like you actually _give_ a damn!” 

“... But I _do_!” Dallon argues in confusion, “I _do_ give a damn, that’s why I’m sitting here trying to talk to you! _God_ , Brendon, if you have something you want to say, then just fucking _say_ it!”

“I’m not _good_ enough for you!” Brendon snaps, slamming his hands against the couch. “Jesus, is that what you want? I said it. Now leave me _alone_!”

But Dallon is only stunned, because that’s the last thing he expected, and it can’t be the reason Brendon is falling apart in front of him. It makes no sense, for one thing: what is a drop-out waste of space like Dallon worth when compared to this kid with all the potential in the world? “What are you even talking about,” Dallon asks quietly. “That’s so... that’s so fucking stupid, Brendon. How could you think that?”

“Because you’re just... it’s not _just_ you, like I said! I’m not good enough for... for anyone or anything, I just...” Brendon trails off, shaking his head. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know. But I still... if I want to live my life on my terms? I have to be better. I have to be perfect.”

Dallon frowns, hard. “Then that’s not living life on your terms, Brendon.”

“No. No, see, this is why I said you wouldn’t understand. Because if I can just...” Brendon pauses, glances at Dallon out of the corner of his eye. “If I can be perfect, if I can do well in this job and if I’m a good musician and if I remember all my nieces and nephews birthdays and if I can just do _everything else_ right... maybe it won’t break my mom’s heart when I tell her I’m gay.”

For a moment, Dallon can only stare. “That’s... Bren, ignoring how absolutely stupid that is, I don’t understand... what it has to do with me.”

“Because I’ll never be good enough for you.” Again, Brendon will only look at Dallon from the corner of his eye. “I can’t... _God_.” His head drops, his hands clutching at his hair. “I can’t handle this shit. I’m falling apart because this fucking job wants me to do everything all by myself and if I can’t keep up they’ll cut me loose, but it’s impossible to get all that paperwork done by the deadline, Zack said as much himself! But... but I have to do it. I have to keep this job, this is my first _real_ job, my mom and my family are so proud, and oh God, if I can’t do this, then I can’t do anything higher or better than this, but I fucking have to or what do I have to offer my family? _Dallon_!” He’s starting to sob again, his hands trembling. “I’m no good, no one at the warehouse really respects me, the higher ups are waiting for me to fail, I’m out here alone, _fuck_ , not that that would change any if I was home.” He huffs out a breath that Dallon thinks might be an attempt to laugh, but, oddly enough, the last thing he wants right now is for Brendon to smile or laugh. “I never had any friends anyway, and I had a boyfriend for a time in college, but I’ve never...” 

The torrent of words stops, and Brendon lifts his head. Sniffs. Turns to look at Dallon. His face is a mess, and he’s chewing on his lower lip, watching Dallon carefully.

“I’ve always felt sort of... cut off. From the rest of the world. I don’t know,” Brendon says quietly, as his breathing slows. His skin and eyes are shining in the glow of the TV, and Dallon can’t take his eyes off him. “I thought it was just a gay thing, y’know, because I had no one to talk to about my feelings, but... but even in college, my boyfriend... I liked him fine. But...” He pauses again, meets Dallon’s eyes for a glimmer of a second, then turns to stare at his lap. “I never really felt connected to anyone until I met you.”

Dallon isn’t sure he understands what’s happening here. Why Brendon is obsessed with perfection, why he sets such high standards for himself if he doesn’t think he’ll ever achieve them, why he thinks he’ll never be good enough. It’s so at odds with everything he’s come to know about Brendon, all the smiles and laughs and the dancing, the whole time this terrified boy has been hidden behind it all, screaming to be heard, pleading not to be seen. How much of it has been real? Any of it? 

Does it matter? 

Brendon is staring at him, shaking, waiting for him to say something, and Dallon can’t think of a word that might be of any sort of help. He’d meant it, what he’d said before: he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care about Brendon. And Dallon knows how much the world wants them to pretend their feelings don’t exist. He went to college in San Francisco, after all. He remembers Harvey Milk’s assassination. He remembers a conviction of manslaughter instead of murder. He remembers the White Night Riots, and at only nineteen years old, away from home for the first time, these are the sorts of things that shape a man. So Dallon knows. He could lose a lot more than his job for what he does with Brendon, and some people wouldn’t even bat an eye. That’s why he keeps it secret. From everyone.

But Brendon knows. Brendon’s here. And even having seen the aftermath of San Francisco in November ‘78, having tried to limit his connections within the community ever since... Dallon still can’t help being here too.

“When we agreed to try this,” says Dallon, finally, and Brendon leans in close to hear him, “I set up those rules to try and protect us from getting too involved. And it turns out, despite all that, you still know more about me than even Spencer does. Despite my best efforts, we’ve become... friends. At the very least. And you should know, because of that, you can trust me with anything.”

Brendon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before speaking in a low voice: “When you said you wanted to end it, I just... I was afraid I was losing the only real friend I’ve ever had.” When he opens his eyes again, that sparkle has returned, and Dallon smiles slightly, because _that_ is real. That can’t be faked. “I act all crazy and cheerful and excited to make people like me. But then when they do, I can’t trust their motives, because that’s not the real me.” He reaches over, grasps one of Dallon’s hands in both of his own. “But you saw. The night before I took over for Zack, when I couldn’t sleep because I was so afraid of failing. You were concerned. You took me out with your friends to make me feel better. So... I do know. That I can trust you.” 

And with a squeeze of his hand, Dallon knows that Brendon means it. 

The TV is still on, flickering yellow light. Albums and take-out boxes are scattered on the floor. It’s not exactly candles and rose petals, but Dallon still leans over to kiss Brendon, gently. Maybe he’s still committed to the idea of ending the sexual part of their relationship, because the kiss was intended to to be sweet and friendly, to establish and cement the place they stand in now. But as soon as he breaks away, without even thinking about it, his free hand presses to Brendon’s cheek, pulling him back in for another. And another. And the next one is deeper, accompanied by clutching fingers, and the next one is full to bursting with everything they left unsaid due to lack of words. 

This isn’t going to work. None of it. They’re already undressing each other, so they can’t stay just friends. They both want more out of this situation than sex, so they can’t be friends with benefits. But they can’t be lovers either. 

_None of this._

Dallon unbuttons Brendon’s fly.

_It’s not okay._

Brendon makes a soft noise, pulls Dallon closer.

_It’ll never be what we want it to be._

And Dallon shifts back, holds his hands up in an attempt to control himself, only to realize it’s nothing more than a gesture of surrender when he sees Brendon’s bare chest heaving, the base of his cock just visible beneath the waistband of his boxers, and Dallon drops his hands to Brendon’s hips instead, pulling him down the couch. 

“Dallon,” Brendon breathes, as Dallon presses his lips to the skin beneath Brendon’s navel, nuzzles his nose in the trail of hair there. “Don’t...”

Dallon glances up, bites his lip as he gently squeezes Brendon’s dick, watches his head fall back. “Why not?”

“I don’t want pity sex,” gasps Brendon. “If you’re just trying to make me feel better...”

“What’s wrong with wanting to see you smile,” Dallon demands, slipping Brendon’s boxers down to his knees, dragging dry lips over Brendon’s exposed length. Brendon gasps again, his hand clutching at the couch, but shakes his head.

“You just feel bad-”

“Your smile is the only thing I ever want,” Dallon confesses without thinking. “That’s not pity or guilt, it’s the truth. Trust me.”

Brendon blinks down at him, then runs a hand through Dallon’s hair, nodding slowly. “Okay, then. Go for it.” 

They’re not doing anything they haven’t done before, but it’s different this time. Something has shifted. It’s Brendon’s dick in Dallon’s mouth, Dallon’s fingers in Brendon’s ass, and really none of this is all that romantic when you think about it. But when Dallon lifts his head, moves up to kiss Brendon’s mouth, there’s an electricity that sparks up between them, anywhere that lips or fingertips touch skin. This is the last thing Dallon wanted when they started this adventure, but the fact that he can’t stop touching Brendon, his hands all over his torso, and Brendon making those little noises, touching him back, lighting a fire... Maybe Dallon doesn’t know what he wants after all.

“Bed?” He mumbles between kisses. Brendon chuckles, reaching between them to feel Dallon’s erection through his jeans.

“Why make the effort?” Brendon responds quietly, and Dallon really admires the way Brendon can keep his head in this kind of situation, enough to unbutton and unzip Dallon’s jeans with one hand. 

“Condom,” Dallon gasps, as Brendon wraps a hand around his dick, rubs his thumb along the underside. “Lube. Might be helpful.”

“You haven’t been with anyone else,” Brendon murmurs, lifting his hips against Dallon’s and groaning softly. “Have you?”

Dallon kisses him roughly, cupping the back of his head, dragging his lips down his neck. “No. You?”

“No. So let’s not worry about the condoms. And for now, don’t worry about the lube either.” Dallon lifts his head, confused.

“So we’re not going to fuck?” And he hates how petulant and disappointed he sounds, until Brendon giggles and pulls him in for another kiss. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Brendon repeats, lifting his hips again, and Dallon can feel Brendon’s cock lining up with his own, and he shudders, because _fuck_ , it’s not a new sensation, but there’s something so intimate about it now, and Dallon thrusts instinctually, looking for friction, which sends Brendon’s head back again, makes his muscles tense. “Jesus, don’t get ahead of me,” Brendon chides, then reaches between them, runs his thumb along Dallon’s slit, and this time they shiver simultaneously. “Fuck, you’re leaking.”

“Good,” Dallon breathes, thrusting again, and Brendon bites his lip, whimpers softly. “Are you gonna...”

Brendon nods quickly, and wraps his hand tightly around both their dicks before leaning up into another kiss, his free hand gripping the back of Dallon’s neck, keeping him close as their hips start to move, thrusting against each other in Brendon’s grasp. Grinding like this, making out so carelessly, is something Dallon thought he’d left behind in high school, but leave it to Brendon to shake him up, present it as something new. He can feel the veins and ridges in Brendon’s dick rubbing against his own, and it’s its own sort of intimacy, very different from any time they’ve been inside each other.

Dallon grabs Brendon’s hips, digs his nails into his skin, and Brendon writhes, bites his lip to fight a moan. Rolling their hips against each other is slow and tortuous, but Dallon can feel his climax building anyway, moves to bite and suck along Brendon’s neck, because fuck it all, hickeys can be explained away, and Dallon is tired of tempering himself with Brendon, tired of holding back, and he’s tired of Brendon doing the same. He wants to hear him, wants him to lose it, so he bites down hard, just under Brendon’s ear. Yes, it’s going to leave a mark, but Brendon groans, loud and wanton, his hips jerking, his hand suddenly pulling Dallon’s hair, so Dallon stays put, until Brendon’s leg jerks up, hooks around his thigh, and someone next door pounds on the wall, but Brendon comes just then, tensing, then relaxing back into the couch. Only then does Dallon pull away, grinning despite his lingering hard on.

Brendon tries to glare at him, but can’t, because he can’t stop smiling long enough for it to be any form of intimidating. “How,” he pants, “if you left a mark... how the hell am I supposed to explain that?” 

Dallon grins at him, and shakes his head. “You’re a young, handsome dude,” he comments, pushing damp hair out of Brendon’s face. “Good job. Decent money. Just tell ‘em you got laid.”

Brendon blinks at him, then starts to laugh as he presses a hand to Dallon’s chest, guides him back, to lay down on the opposite end of the couch. “By someone hot and older,” he teases, shifting until he can take the head of Dallon’s cock in his mouth, and Dallon gasps helplessly; he’s throbbing by this point, and thrusts up into Brendon’s mouth, but the kid takes it in stride and swallows him down, humming softly, dragging his nails down the inside of Dallon’s thigh. 

Dallon can’t let this go. Can’t give this up. No one else makes him feel this way. Period. And what Brendon had said, about not feeling connected to anyone before, Dallon understands that more than he can express. Maybe it is a gay thing. Maybe it’s just something for the two of them. Doesn’t matter, as long as they understand each other.

Dallon comes with a grunt, and Brendon swallows most of it, then crawls up to rest his head on Dallon’s chest. Dallon responds by putting a hand on his shoulder, and before he knows it, they’re wrapped around each other, nuzzling and kissing and touching in the afterglow. This is new. But not unwelcome. 

After a while, Dallon happens to catch a glimpse of the clock under the TV. It’s past ten. There’s still time for more, but Dallon feels exhausted, and needs some time on his own to figure out what happened tonight. “Bren,” he whispers, catching Brendon’s lips in a kiss, “I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” is Brendon’s response, but he sits up anyway, allowing Dallon to do the same. “You could sleep here.”

“I have to check on Breezy,” Dallon points out, tucking his dick back into his jeans, then reaching to try and find his shirt on the floor. “And it’s probably for the better if we’re not seen leaving together in the morning.”

Brendon watches as Dallon makes himself presentable, sitting cross-legged on the couch, naked except for his socks. “So... what happened tonight. Doesn’t matter?”

“Hey,” Dallon frowns, then leans over to kiss Brendon again, gently. “I didn’t say that. And obviously, whatever it is we’re doing isn’t ending just yet. So don’t worry. Try to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Brendon just looks at him for a long time, and Dallon wonders if anything he said tonight sunk in. How long it will take for Brendon to actually believe that he cares. Because Brendon smiles and nods like he understands, but Dallon doesn’t believe him. 

And what was tonight worth if it only made their problems worse?

So Dallon kisses him again, lets it linger. “Don’t fake smiles around me anymore. Okay?” Another kiss, to Brendon’s forehead, and now he can feel the heat of a blush behind it. “I know you. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

This time, when Brendon smiles, it reaches his eyes. Lights something warm in Dallon’s chest. “I’ll try,” he says softly, and Dallon accepts it. It’s enough for now.

 

\-----

 

Since the warehouse is the only option they have for a practice space, and Dallon, Spencer and Patrick can’t really afford to miss out on a little extra money every week, the band starts to come together within the next week. At first, they only play covers, whatever sort of simplistic songs that Patrick can figure out the basic chords to, and building the song up from there. It’s not as difficult as it seems, and sometimes Dallon comes home, late at night, feeling more stifled than before. He starts picking up pieces of paper, jotting down turns of phrase that pop into his head, and stuffing them in his instrument case to be sorted through later. Nothing long or demanding, just pretty sentences that could be used as a foundation for something more. 

At some point around the end of January, while attempting to figure out what’s missing from their cover of [‘Heat of the Moment,’](http://youtu.be/NfFjb3B9RRw) Dallon makes a joke about how the band needs a synth or else they’ll never be taken seriously. A week later, he walks into Brendon’s apartment after practice and finds a digital synthesizer set up in the front room, taking up almost the entire space between the couch and the TV, and Brendon is just grinning like he can’t believe he bought the damn thing either.

“I was kidding,” Dallon mumbles almost to himself, setting his bass down and pressing a key, frowning when there’s no audible response. “Does it even work?”

“Of course it works.” Brendon rolls his eyes, pulling an amp out from the other side of the couch and quickly hooking it up, playing a few chords. “I know you were kidding when you said it, but I really do think a synth could bring a lot to the music. So many songs have synth these days! I know it drives Spencer nuts, but we’re gonna run out of shit to play otherwise.”

Dallon disagrees, generally, considering the library of rock and roll at their disposal, but as he runs his hand over the shiny plastic, peering at the buttons and faders, that’s not really his main concern. “Aren’t these really expensive?”

Brendon at least has the decency to blush. “I had Christmas money I hadn’t spent yet, so it’s at least partially a gift from my mom.”  
“No way-”

“I already bought it and started payments, so it’s too late to protest now,” Brendon says stubbornly, reaching over to fix some settings, to start playing the opening from [‘Jump.’](http://youtu.be/wlq0lYB3iSM) It’s a clear change of subject, and as much as Dallon knows Spencer will be furious, for more reasons than one, he decides not to fight that battle. 

“Did you just figure out how to do all this by reading the manual?” he asks instead, genuinely surprised at Brendon’s ease with the instrument. Brendon just laughs, almost shyly.

“They offered a few electronic music classes when I was in college, so I took them. For an arts credit. I have a piano background anyway, so why not? It was fun.” Brendon is smiling to himself, watching his fingers on the keys, and Dallon takes a seat on the couch to watch as well. “I almost changed my major but...” Brendon shrugs, still not looking at Dallon, still playing little chords and melodies with a rough electronic edge. “But I figured management was where the money is.”

That strikes a string in Dallon’s heart, and he frowns, can’t take his eyes off Brendon. “Do you really think money is the most important thing there is?”

Brendon stops playing, and finally turns to him with a hurt expression. “I... Dallon, I already told you. My mom... I have to fit into this... this mold. That will make her happy. So I can-”

“Brendon,” Dallon gets up and puts a hand over one of Brendon’s. After a brief hesitation, he encloses the hand in his own, presses his fingertips into the palm until Brendon squeezes back. “Shouldn’t your mom just want you to be happy?”

“That’s cute,” Brendon scoffs, but it has no bite behind it. “And I guess your mother just opened her arms to you when you told her?”

That wasn’t what he was talking about, but Dallon still drops his head in shame. After dropping out of college, after failing to do anything remarkable with his life, Dallon has isolated himself from his family. There is no animosity, and they all call on occasion. In fact, Dallon adores his nieces, wishes he could afford to visit them more often. But no one knows about who he spends his time with. His mother has never voiced her disappointment, but he’s seen it in her eyes, heard her change the subject when relatives bring up his name. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it gets worse.

He lifts Brendon’s hand and kisses his knuckles, the tip of his thumb, then takes a deep breath. “Can I show you something?” When Brendon only blinks, Dallon slips away, sits back down, opens up his case. Brendon sits next to him when Dallon hands over the slips of paper hidden inside.

“What are these?” he asks quietly, flipping through them, attempting to read the scratched letters. 

“Lyrics,” Dallon answers. “Maybe. I don’t know. They could just be... thoughts. Ideas. Who knows.”

Brendon glances at him, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He hums thoughtfully, then hands over one of the sheets. “What does this idea sound like?”

Soft. More piano than synth. Bells. Bittersweet and gentle defeat. Building remorse upon regret upon revulsion. Dallon clears his throat. “I don’t know.”

Brendon’s smile grows. “Lying is unattractive, Dallon,” he smirks, leaning his head on Dallon’s shoulder. “It’s short. Just sing what you hear. I’ll figure out the rest.”

_Figure out..._ “Brendon, we’re not songwriters. I wouldn’t even... know where to start.”

“Start with the melody you hear in your head,” Brendon says, as if it were really that simple. “Build on it from there. Come on. There’s no one here but me and Sarah.” He lifts his head again, and grins, and Dallon can never help smiling back. “Sing it for me.”

Dallon takes a deep breath, staring at the words in his hands, turning the paper over between his fingers. Brendon is still watching him expectantly, and even Sarah sits in the corner, head tilted, blue eyes trained on Dallon’s face. So after another quick glance at Brendon, Dallon starts to sing, almost inaudibly:

__[“Why don’t you smile?](http://thebrobecks.bandcamp.com/track/why-i-dont-smile)  
My teeth would get cold  
You know that it’s not that I’m sad  
Not that I’m down.” 

Those probably aren’t even real notes, and the melody is probably exactly the sort of thing that only works in one’s head, but Brendon gets up and stands behind the synth again. After some adjustments, he starts to play a few gentle chords, then hums the melody back at Dallon as he plays. Even without words, Brendon’s voice is stronger, more vibrant than his own, and Dallon suddenly realizes he wrote the phrase about the boy in front of him, who only smiles again, unaware.

“Pull up a chair,” Brendon says, fingers still playing over the keys. “That’s where we’ll start.”

 

\-----

 

Brendon debuts the synth the next evening after work, much to Spencer’s disappointment. But even he can’t refute what the instrument brings to their band, how many songs it opens up for them to play, and in the first week of February, Brendon goes back to the bar to secure a performance time for that weekend.

Dallon and Brendon keep their songwriting to themselves. It quickly became something more intimate than sex, and often the two fade into each other: a particularly intricate melody leads to fairly intense kisses which lead to bed which leads to poetic words that can only find their way out when both men are too torn open to stop them. At least once a night, Dallon realizes this has gone so far beyond a casual arrangement for sex that there is no chance of stopping it anymore. He lies awake in bed, holding Brendon’s head against his chest, his nose in Brendon’s hair, his thumb gently caressing Brendon’s ear or cheek or temple, and he wonders what this has become and how it came to be that way. How this sweet kid with the gentle smile got Dallon so firmly wrapped around his finger. Whether or not he wants to even bother establishing where they stand together.

He always leaves before three. Brendon is usually either asleep, or doesn’t protest. 

Dallon has made a habit of rushing home to feed and pay attention to Breezy for a little while between work and practice, and on Friday afternoon, he makes it back to the warehouse to find Brendon alone. “Where are the guys?”

Brendon finishes buttoning his coat, before reaching to adjust Dallon’s collar, the kind of gesture that’s only made as a pretense to touch someone else. “They’re taking the amps down to the bar for tonight. I said I’d wait here to tell you.” There’s a pause before he adds, “We’re alone, by the way.”

Dallon chuckles, leaning in for a brief kiss. “We need to start heading over there ourselves, so don’t get any ideas.” He takes a step back, but leaves his hands on Brendon’s waist, reconsidering what he’s about to do. “Actually... while I have the chance. I want to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s this band coming through town soon that I want to see, and... and I was wondering if you wanted to come with?”

Brendon blinks, and gets that blank expression on his face; it’s a bit more recognizable now, though Dallon can’t figure out what causes it to occur, especially because he’s basically, finally, properly asking Brendon out. “Who is it?”

“They’re kind of punk, but... not exactly. It’s that new punk that’s developing in Orange County. There’s some two-tone in there, and...” Dallon catches himself and clears his throat. “They’re called Operation Ivy. It could be fun.”

A smirk is obviously trying to fight its way onto Brendon’s face. “I didn’t know you were a punk, Dallon.”

“I’d be a punk if my mom would let me,” Dallon grins back. “So what do you say?”

“Sure. Why not? I’m a little surprised you’re into the punk thing, but I trust you.”

And how can Dallon not smile after hearing those words? But they’re already late for set-up, so they finalize their plans on the walk over. Brendon still seems shut off somehow, but Dallon can’t put his finger on what he might have said or done to make that happen. 

After set-up and soundcheck, the band hangs around backstage, which is actually more of a large storage room just across from the bar. They agreed beforehand not to drink before performances, even if they were nervous, but as the clock ticks closer and closer to showtime, Dallon starts to wonder if a shot of whiskey wouldn’t actually do Brendon some good.

Brendon had been solid all day. Cheerful, excited even. He had been the one who pushed this so hard, made the arrangements with the owner, ensured they had everything they needed. But with thirty minutes left, hearing the crowd on the other side of the door grow louder, Brendon has turned an odd shade of green, and has taken to sitting by himself in the corner furthest from the door, his head resting in his hands. Patrick seems concerned, and Spencer looks like he’s anticipating the worst, but Dallon knows how Brendon thinks. That crumpled posture is familiar, even if he wishes it wasn’t, and he kneels next to Brendon, puts a hand on his shoulder, asks if he’s all right.

“I can’t do it,” is the quiet reply. “I can’t sing in front of all those people.”

Dallon swallows, glances back at the other two. “Brendon, we need you. You’ll be fine, you’re just overthinking it.” He leans in as close as he dares, and whispers, “You don’t need to be perfect.” Brendon stiffens under his hand. “You just need to have fun.”

“I can’t,” Brendon repeats in a hollow voice. “I’m so sorry. I really am, I just...”

He won’t move. Maybe can’t. Dallon can see the way Brendon is gripping at his hair, the way his knees are shaking, and he wants to do more. Stroke his hair, kiss his face, maybe even just a hug... but not with Patrick and Spencer watching. All he can do is sit back and sigh. “Brendon...”

“You sing,” Brendon commands, quiet and shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Spencer storms over, standing over Brendon with his hands on his hips. “You can’t back out now!” he snaps, “We worked so fucking hard, you set up everything, and you’re gonna pussy out fifteen minutes before we go on stage? What the hell is wrong with-”

“Spencer,” Dallon frowns, getting to his feet. “Don’t. If he doesn’t want to do it, he doesn’t have to do it. I’ll sing. That’s what you wanted anyway, isn’t it?”

“But what about the synth songs? You can’t play both bass and synth!”

“We made some of them work without the synth, didn’t we? And any of them that absolutely need it, we’ll just cut them. It’s not a long set. If the owner wants us to come back, we’ll figure out more songs.”

Spencer glares at Dallon, starts to turn his anger to Brendon, but before he can say anything, the door opens, and a small man with a pageboy haircut, dressed all in black, saunters inside, a cigarette smoldering in his hand. 

“You kids ready to rock?” he asks in a high-pitched voice, completely unaware of the tension that’s gathered in the room. “Apologies,” he says after noticing Patrick’s confused expression, “I’m Eric Nally, and I own this fine establishment. It’s showtime, so if my little rockstars are ready to get to work, your eager fans await.”

Dallon turns back to Brendon. “Last chance, Bren.”

But Brendon doesn’t respond. He stays curled up on the floor, his head in his hands. Spencer makes a noise of disgust, and heads for the door, fists clenched. Patrick bites his lower lip, hesitating, then follows Spencer out. Dallon takes a deep breath, and isn’t sure if he should speak the words in his head, but eventually decides that they need to be heard.

“I’m disappointed,” he says quietly, “because I wanted to see how well you’d do. You... would’ve been incredible.”

Brendon still doesn’t move. Reluctantly, Dallon leaves him behind.

After they’ve settled on stage, after the crowd has quieted enough for their little trio to start their first song, Dallon leading with [a smooth bass riff](http://youtu.be/lDK9QqIzhwk) and Spencer cues Patrick with a few quick snare hits, Dallon watches as Brendon rockets across the room and out the front door. Maybe it was too much to hope that a kid who had such extreme expectations for himself, but no certainty that he can reach them, could get up there and give his all. 

Now they’ll never know. 

Dallon closes his eyes and sighs into the microphone, “ _Once upon a time, not so long ago..._ ”

 

\-----

 

The band’s performance is such a hit that Eric immediately enlists them for performances every Friday and Saturday night. Dallon is delighted, but has trouble truly enjoying the news without Brendon to share it with. He should be part of it. That they did so well without him, as Spencer keeps arguing, is irrelevant: it’s like arguing that yellow cake doesn’t need chocolate icing. Sure, it tastes fine without it. But it’s not the same experience.

Dallon calls Brendon’s apartment from the phone behind the bar, unsure of what to do with the synth he left behind, but when no one answers, Spencer agrees to take it home, under the condition that Dallon help him load and unload it. Dallon is too surprised by the offer to refuse. 

Spencer lives in the nicer part of town, just past one of the gay clubs that Dallon used to frequent. He’d noticed it on the drive over, still lit up, a line composed of men in tight pants and girls in ties pouring out the door. He almost comments on it, then decides it’s probably best not to mention it after all. People talk, sure, but the club doesn’t openly advertise its clientele, and the less attention Dallon can draw to his preferences, the better.

Instead, he asks how Spencer can afford to live on this side of town, and Spencer only shrugs. “Roommate’s got some sort of inheritance. I just cover food and utilities.”

“Must be nice,” Dallon tries not to sound jealous. Spencer’s smirk proves he failed.

“You could advertise for a roommate, you know,” cajoles Spencer. “Save some money and maybe get away from that old biddy that owns the house.”

At first, Dallon scoffs at the idea; with the company he keeps at night? There’s no way. But then he realizes: Brendon lives alone too. If they were roommates, that would make life so much simpler, wouldn’t it? Together, they could afford a nice apartment over here near Spencer, a little larger than Brendon’s current place, maybe with a porch or balcony for the cats to play on, and a dining nook, for entertaining. They could have real furniture and whole plates and a dishwasher to wash them in, and Breezy and Sarah could have decent food, hell, _Dallon_ could have decent food too, something besides dry bologna sandwiches or Spaghettios. They could walk to work together, maybe carpool if Brendon ever made enough to buy a car, watch cable TV in the evenings with microwave dinners and fall asleep cuddled up on the couch...

He’s smiling and doesn’t even realize it until Spencer remarks on it. Then, Dallon remembers. He can sleep with Brendon, if he’s discreet. Maybe they can even go on a date or two, if it’s casual. But they’re not boyfriends and they never will be, so why is he even pretending? Hauling the synth into Spencer’s townhouse, seeing the clothes strewn in the kitchen, the ironing board set up by the TV, an Atari console wrapped up on the stairs, Dallon realizes that the scenes in his imagination were far from how roommates behave and interact. Spencer probably doesn’t kiss his roommate good morning.

Still, the scene sticks with him, and even though Brendon is meek and apologetic when they return to work on Monday, Dallon is so enamored with his imagination that he quickly forgives, offers to help move the synth back to Brendon’s apartment, and reminds him about the concert he had agreed to go to. Brendon seems taken aback by Dallon’s kindness, and, during the two weeks between that weekend and the concert, Dallon wonders whether or not he should try and get Brendon to talk about what happened. Because Brendon won’t. Spencer is still furious and Dallon doesn’t want to disturb the peace, but occasionally Patrick will leave an open offer for Brendon to return to the band. Brendon only smiles and says he’ll think about it. Usually, though, he’ll lock himself in his office while they practice, catching up on his paperwork, then lock up behind them when they’re done. And that’s all.

He’s become more distant from Dallon too, though Dallon can’t figure out why. He knows that Brendon doesn’t necessarily see the world the same way he does, may interpret words or glances very differently than they’re intended to be taken, but he can’t think of anything he’s said or done that could be misconstrued so drastically that Brendon would become so withdrawn. They walk home together, only to separate at Brendon’s gate, Brendon offering some forgettable and meaningless excuse, and a slightly more sincere apology, before disappearing up the stairs. 

It gets to a point where, the night before the concert, having just been denied once again at Brendon’s gate, Dallon demands to know if Brendon is still interested in coming. And Brendon looks genuinely surprised to be asked.

“Of course I am. I’ve been looking forward to it!”

“You haven’t...” But Dallon cuts himself off when he realizes how lame and petulant he sounds. “I guess we’ve both kind of been busy, so... so I wasn’t sure.”

Brendon blinks up at him for a moment, then shivers, pulls his coat tight under his chin. The night is sharp and chilly, promising frost by morning, probably one of the last of the season, but Dallon works up a sweat during rehearsal, so for now, he can appreciate a little ice. “I guess,” Brendon tries finally, “I guess I’m just not sure I see the point to it anymore.”

“Point to what? The show?” Dallon frowns. “There was never a point to it.” Except for trying a date, seeing what happens, just this once, to indulge in something a little closer to his dreams. 

“I thought... you wanted me to see the frontman,” Brendon explains slowly, apparently realizing his error as he speaks. “As an example. For the band? But I’m not part of the band anymore, so...” He swallows and stares at his feet. 

This is just too much. Brendon's emotions and reactions are impossible to predict, and Dallon's not sure he can handle this absolute detachment from reality. Because that's what it is. Dallon invites him to a concert, and Brendon thinks it's completely business? That...

But maybe Dallon's been asking for this. He's the one who insisted they keep their feelings out of it, and now he has the audacity to be surprised and angry when Brendon does the same? He exhales slowly, breath fogging in the air. 

"No, I wanted... to take you on a date. Finally." He clears his throat when Brendon looks up with wide, shining eyes. "That's all."

Brendon stares at him for a long, long moment. His cheeks are pink with cold, chapped lips slightly parted. He's embraceable and kissable and shivering under his jacket, but Dallon’s sure, if he pulled him close, Brendon would be radiating heat, and Dallon is actually just about to give into that whim when Brendon’s gaze drops again, when Brendon takes a step back.

“I didn’t realize we’d come that far,” he says in a soft voice, a gloved knuckle pressed against his lips. “I mean... isn’t a date kind of... dangerous? What if we were caught?”

“It’s a punk show!” Dallon shrugs. “It’s not like we’d be slow-dancing under a spotlight! We’ll probably spend most of the evening standing outside the pit drinking beer. We’d be the only ones who know it’s a date.”

“Then it’s not really a date, is it?” A sad smile has formed when Brendon lifts his head. “And that’s not really your fault, I guess. I’m just saying.”

It’s true. It’s not fair, but it’s true. “Still. I just kind of... wanted to try it.” Because saying how Dallon really feels, admitting to the fantasies he’s been having, how lonely he’s been with Brendon pulling away from him... that’s too difficult. And that’s not fair either, but what can a man do? Lay it all out there, admit that he was wrong? Maybe. Another day. 

But it seems that Brendon is more of a man than Dallon is, because at that moment, Brendon clears his throat. “I should... if that’s what you were thinking? Then I have something to tell you.”

Maybe, if Brendon says it first, it won’t be so hard to say. “What’s that?”

Brendon takes a breath and holds it, speaking as he exhales into the still air, warm and whispered words that Dallon has to lean forward to hear: “I slept with someone else.”

Wait. No.

“What,” Dallon furrows his brow, confused. “What do you mean? Slept with some-... like. You had sex with someone else?”

“Yes,” and at least Brendon has the courtesy to look ashamed, because Dallon is suddenly weighed down with an aching anger so heavy that he can barely lift his clenched fists. They stand in silence, each waiting for the other to make the first response, and finally Dallon caves under the gravity of his own pain, slumping, his fingers relaxing as he breathes in, tries to understand. Because Brendon shouldn’t have done this to him, he’s furious, he’s hurt, they had a _date_ -!

But Brendon didn’t know it was a date. And they had never agreed to stay monogamous. And yes, maybe in the beginning, Brendon had shown signs that he wanted more from Dallon, who still remembers that whispered song in his ear when he should have been asleep. Maybe, if Dallon had just clarified... but Brendon had to be deliberately obtuse not to understand what Dallon was asking!

But Dallon knows that Brendon doesn’t look at things the same way he does, Brendon doesn’t look at _himself_ the way Dallon does, that’s for damn sure, if he ever thought that Dallon didn’t... didn’t care about him. A lot. A hell of a lot. Enough that it hurts so _fucking_ much to think that...

“ _God_ ,” Dallon finally says, putting his hands in his hair and pulling, trying to stay focused. “Just... I don’t understand, Brendon, when did you...?”

“After I couldn’t go on stage,” Brendon answers quietly. He looks confused too, his eyes dark and tired, his fingers quivering in the cold. “I ended up at another bar across town, started talking to this guy, and there was a lot of drinking involved, and...” There’s a part of Dallon that wants to hear the rest, wants to rip Brendon open and try to see everything he hides behind that sweet smile, try to figure out why the hell he thinks the way he does, makes such stupid decisions! But in the end he’s glad Brendon doesn’t continue. He wants to retain at least some of his composure and dignity. “I mean, it’s not like we agreed not to be with other guys! That wasn’t one of your rules!”

“I didn’t think I had to say so!” Dallon snaps before he can stop himself, and he blushes so hot he can’t feel the cold slapping his cheeks anymore. “I mean...” He licks his lips, shakes his head. “With that whole... disease. And everything. I thought it was implied.” But even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying, and however dense Brendon might be, Dallon can see the lift of his eyebrows, that silent expression of disbelief. “But... maybe I should’ve said it.”

“Maybe you could say it now,” Brendon offers, trying to give him a way out, trying to absolve himself, but Dallon only huffs, and his chest still hurts. He wants to make sure he’s not the only one who feels this way.

“What is it with you and these drunken encounters.” Dallon doesn’t have to look at Brendon’s face to know that his words hit home. “Are you gonna start following this guy around and get him involved in some sort of arrangement too?”

“That... this whole thing! Was _your_ idea!” Brendon argues, his face crumpled and confused. “And I don’t want _him_ , I want-”

“Did you not even get his name? Jesus, Brendon, you should at least ask a guy’s name before you take him home.”

“His name was _Nate_ , and I didn’t take him home, that’s-!” Brendon’s forehead is glowing red, spreading down to his nose before he covers his face in his hands and makes a frustrated growl. “Why are you _doing_ this to me?”

“Why are _you_ doing this to _me_?!” Dallon snaps back, his hands slipping into fists again. “Go fucking find Nate and have him take care of you, then. I’m done.”

“ _Dallon_!” It’s impossible to tell if Brendon is pleading or angry or on the verge of tears. It might be all three. “I... I don’t want _Nate_ , that was just... I was a fucking mess that night and you were disappointed in me so I didn’t want to see that look in your eyes anymore and _God_ , you _know_ how I am and you’re still going to stand there and treat me like some kind of cheating alleyway slut? _Fuck_!” Brendon drops his hands and looks at Dallon this time, and this must be what Brendon is really like, underneath the shiny-happy veneer, even beyond the scared, anxious boy, there is this fierce, captivating young man, his feet firmly on the ground, his head held high, and really, it’s just like Dallon to fall in love during the worst possible moment. “I have feelings for _you_! I want _you_! And I’m sorry if it hurt you that I did that, but all you have to do is ask, and I’m yours. That’s... that’s all I wanted from the start.”

Brendon ended up being the bigger man after all. It’s out there. No more whispered song lyrics in unaware ears, no more longing looks when he thinks Dallon’s too busy to see. It’s been said, and he can’t take it back. To his credit, he’s not even cowering, doesn’t look afraid or anxious in the least, though Dallon can’t tell what kind of storm might be churning behind Brendon’s eyes. 

And when he meets those eyes, Dallon can’t help seeing some other man. He can’t help seeing that Brendon has problems and sometimes he doesn’t handle them well, and yes, okay, maybe Dallon is in love with Brendon, that strong and gorgeous Brendon he witnessed just now. But he’s too old to deal with the rest of it. If this is how Brendon deals with his problems, Dallon’s not sure he wants to be part of it.

“I’m done,” Dallon says, holding out his hands, and Brendon’s jaw drops, before he starts to protest. “No. No, Brendon, I can’t do this. It’s over. For real this time.” 

Brendon is silent. His eyes are wide, his breaths short, and Dallon pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders as he turns around. “And never mind about the concert. Let’s just... forget this whole thing.”

“Dallon, wait-”

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Dallon!”

But Dallon starts walking away and doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even say ‘good night’ over his shoulder, or any such common courtesies. He manages to keep his composure until he’s fumbled his key in the door of his apartment, stumbled through, pulled a waiting Breezy up into his chest. She purrs contentedly, unaware of any problems, as Dallon leans against his door and presses his face into her fur, desperately seeking comfort in the weight of her tiny paw on his hand.

“I’m so stupid, Breezy,” he whispers, stifling a sob. She turns and butts her forehead against his nose, and he accepts it as a gesture of love. It’s pathetic and he knows it, a gay man alone with his cat, but at least Breezy can’t hurt him as badly as Brendon has. “I love him,” he murmurs, even softer this time, just to say it aloud and get the words off his tongue, but his heart clenches and the tears start fresh. Saying it was just salt in the wound. Forget it all.

Alone is better, really.

  
_If I told you all the words I’ve yet to say_  
Would they matter? Or would you simply turn and walk away?  
If I hold you, will you tell me I should go?  
Do I chance it, or would it just be better not to know?  
\- **[If I Told You](http://youtu.be/xtz64c88nWc)** (The Wedding Singer)

**End Part Two**


	3. Right In Front of Your Eyes

Dallon is an expert at avoiding his problems by now, and the issue with Brendon is no exception. They don’t speak. Dallon bolts out of the warehouse after rehearsal to avoid any potential opportunities to talk to Brendon. Spencer notices, but seems to have written it off as Dallon finally getting angry about Brendon not performing with the band. Not that that matters much anymore either; they’ve gained a bit of a fanclub by early March, a small group of men and women who have started creating a space to dance in during their shows. In fact, Ian says that Eric is considering paying them a little extra, having them play a little later into the night. And Dallon is ecstatic, really. All he ever wanted was to play in a band, and now, he’s truly living the dream.

Well, not truly. But as close as he could ever realistically hope to get. 

His anger is noticeable, and he’s fine with that. Brendon did fuck the band over, after all, so he can rely on that as an excuse. It’s the pain that he can’t deal with. It sits on his chest, always. At times it’s unbearable, and he can barely breathe, but he has to push on and pretend everything is alright. Maybe this is what it’s like for Brendon every day. But thinking of Brendon only makes it worse, and so he tries to avoid that as well. This task is not as easy as he would like it to be, especially considering they work together. 

And he has no one to talk to about this, either. Breezy will listen, of course, peering up at him with intent green eyes, but she can’t respond with sympathy, can’t give him advice. So yes, the pain simmers underneath the anger for a while, but eventually it starts to boil, and the Friday after he finally cut himself off from Brendon, Dallon has had all he can take. His performance that night is rough, and he’s too miserable to spend time around Spencer and Patrick, around the warm and joyous people at Nally’s bar. So he packs up his bass and goes home. Feeds Breezy. Changes into tighter pants, a dress shirt, a loose tie, a pair of dusty black boots he hasn’t worn in years. He absolutely looks like someone who hasn’t been on the scene for a very long time, but it’s the best he’s going to get, so he pulls on his coat and heads out anyway, catching the bus across town to the club he used to frequent. Maybe Brendon had the right idea after all. Find some random guy, fuck him, and move on. Erase Brendon from his mind, if only for a few minutes. It’ll be enough to remind him what it used to be like.

The line outside the club is long, but moves quickly. Dallon wonders if that means that all the other men are already pairing up, heading out to whoever’s home is nearest, or maybe a hotel, if one of them is married. Though, it seems, the scene here has changed in the past few years: most of these boys are wearing colors in their hair now, instead of on their face, and he ends up undoing buttons at the top and bottom of his shirt before he reaches the door, just to try and fit in with these scruffy, careless kids. He stands out like a sore thumb, a dirty old man trying to pick up a naive college student, but the doorman winks at him after checking his ID, smirking, and Dallon blushes but feels a little better.

Once inside the building, he realizes that maybe fashion changes, but nothing else will. [The Weather Girls](http://youtu.be/bBlbPw7WAqM) are pouring out of the speakers, the same song that played all the time when he still came here often enough to notice, in the same disco style that was popular when he was in college. The dancing is a little more energetic, and there are a lot more girls now... but they stick to their own kind. Everyone knows what they came here for, and they stay out of the other team’s way.  
Dallon heads straight for the bar, orders a Long Island Iced Tea. Only when the drink is sitting in front of him does he remember that he has bills to pay and he really shouldn’t waste money on cocktails, and he’s alone, and he hasn’t eaten since lunch...

He feels eyes on him and glances over his shoulder to see a lithe young punk, pink leopard-print pants and a short mohawk, staring at his back. Nice, inviting smile. Intense eyes. Starts to wander over, now that eye contact has been made. Dallon takes a deep breath, then a long drink. It’s been too long. He’s not going to be able to do this without the help of vodka. And tequila. And rum. And gin. 

The kid is still grinning as he slides onto the stool next to Dallon. “Music here sucks,” he comments almost conspiratorially, pointing upwards as the song changes to [that ridiculous song that was all over the radio](http://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ) about a month ago. He remembers joking about it with Brendon when it came on one night, saying they’d never hear from that guy again. 

“The world’s gonna give up on him,” Dallon tries the same lame joke he’d used with Brendon on this kid, who laughs a little too loudly. Dallon can’t tell if that’s just how he is, or if he’s faking for the sake of flirtation. “I’m Dallon.”

“Tyler,” says broad shoulders under a purple jacket. “Can I buy you another?”

His drink is already half gone. Dallon hesitates, glancing between the drink, and Tyler. Handsome, young, and willing Tyler. Sure his eyes don’t sparkle, but his mouth is plump and his body’s nice. Okay. He’ll do. 

“Sure,” and Dallon downs the rest of his first drink, then grins at Tyler. “What kind of music do you like, then?”

It’s another hour and a half of small talk and cocktails, little flirtations and gestures, before Dallon is drunk enough to nod when Tyler whispers in his ear, invites him out back. It’s cold outside, and they’re not alone: other couples are spaced through the alleyway, unashamed of their own impatience. Tyler must do this a lot, because he’s got a condom out and on before Dallon can even concentrate enough to unzip his pants. But Tyler is kind, his smile is understanding, and how is he able to get that zipper down, pull those tight pants past Dallon’s hips, wasn’t he drinking just as much as Dallon was? Can’t remember and doesn’t matter, because Tyler is prepared for everything, and Dallon has kind of always been a cockslut under the right conditions. Brendon was surprised, every time, how he could turn Dallon into a whimpering, begging mess of gibberish, but why think of that when the brick of this club is so cold against his skin and it’s not Brendon behind him, but Tyler. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, he’s pretty good, willing to jerk Dallon off when Dallon is too far gone to do so, because yeah. Yeah. This is pretty good. 

And when it’s over, Tyler helps him pull his pants up, brushes dirt off his cheek, and kisses his forehead. “Thanks for a good time,” Tyler says with a wink, and disappears into the night. For a moment Dallon wonders if he imagined the whole thing, but no, he’s definitely stretched open, all the more uncomfortable in these pants, and the remnants of their encounter are on the ground next to his boots. Maybe on his boots. He can’t tell. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself. Wham, bam, thank you, man. Tyler was polite, and Dallon’s had worse, but now he can kind of remember the real reason he gave up on this sort of thing: he feels lonelier now than he did before. And with Brendon hanging over his head, that pain is worse, coursing through his whole body, and he pushes away from the wall and tries to stumble out of the alleyway, running into a pair of girls who immediately protest his intrusion, push him away, and now he’s completely disoriented, leaning against the wall once again, until he can get his bearings. 

Spencer. Spencer lives near here, doesn’t he? Just around the corner. Right? Dallon’s not sure he can walk that far, God, this whole idea was one big fucking mistake. He could pass out crossing the street, and then what? 

He could pass out in this alley. He could pass out anywhere. At least if he makes the effort to get to Spencer’s, he might be able to pass out there instead. So he pushes away from the wall once more, heading for the road. He stumbles across the street, struggles to remember which direction he needs to go in, and falls more than once, tripping over his own feet. By the time he recognizes Spencer’s car in a driveway up ahead, his hands and knees are scraped up, and there might be a bruise forming on his cheek as well.

It’s late enough that there are no cars on the road, and all the lights are off in the house, but Dallon knocks on the door anyway. He’ll sleep on the porch if he has to, and when a light flickers on through the nearest window, Dallon briefly worries he’s picked the right place, especially when the door opens to reveal a lanky brunet that Dallon doesn’t recognize.

“Spencer?” Dallon whimpers, taking a step back. The man yawns, then grins.

“I’ll go get him.”

When Spencer gets downstairs, he takes one look at Dallon and sighs. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, escorting Dallon in and situating him on the couch. “How did you even get here? You took a cab, right?”

“I... walked?” Dallon tries, then laughs at himself. “It’s just... right over there.” His hand flounders in the air, and Spencer sighs again. 

“Ryan,” he says over his shoulder, “can you get him a glass of water?” When the lanky man (who must be his roommate) disappears, Spencer pulls a chair over, sitting in front of Dallon. “You were at that place around the corner?”

“Yup.” Ryan tries to hand a glass of water to Dallon, who has to concentrate just to keep from dropping it as he drinks. Spencer glares at Ryan when he tries to sit next to Dallon, shoos him back upstairs before remarking:

“I thought that was a gay bar.”

“Yeah, well,” Dallon laughs, spilling water over his chin and neck, “birds of a feather, or something like that.”

Spencer stares at him for a long moment, then shifts in his chair. “Oh. I never would’ve... oh.”

Dallon finishes the glass, tilts until he falls, lying on his back. “That was stupid of me,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “No one was supposed to know.”

“No, no, it...” Spencer pauses, biting his lip. “It kind of makes sense, now that I think about it.”

“Shouldn’t have told you,” Dallon continues, as if he didn’t hear. “I need to... people go weird when they find out, y’know? Straight people do. Are you gonna go weird?”

“Weird how?” Spencer asks softly.

“Want to kick my ass, or something. Never speak to me again.” Dallon chuckles, putting his hands over his face. “God I’m stupid.”

Spencer turns his face away, thinking. “Why did you go to that club, Dallon?” he asks after a moment. “Have you gone there before?”

“Not... not for years and years,” Dallon answers honestly, stretching the vowels. “I went tonight so... so I could forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Him.”

Spencer turns back, frowning. “Am I supposed to know who ‘him’ is?” 

Dallon shrugs. He won’t say his name. Spencer is smart enough to figure it out anyway, if he tries, but all he does is rub his temples and make a face. 

“Fine. I’m guessing it didn’t work, then?”

“I guess I’ve never been much for meaningless fucks.”

Spencer cringes, twists it into a smile. “That’s... that’s never gonna bring up quite the same image when you say that anymore. I... okay.” He clears his throat. “What happened with... ‘him,’ then?”

Dallon rolls over with a groan; that water is not agreeing with all the other liquids he’s had tonight. “He cheated. Well. He wasn’t _with_ me, y’know, so I guess it wasn’t cheating, but it fucking felt like he cheated, and I just...” He takes a deep breath before slowly sitting up. He feels like he’s going to throw up, but when he opens his mouth, it’s words that start to stream out without stopping: “He’s just a kid, younger than you even, so he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, I’ve seen a lot of fucking shit. I’ve tried being out, and even in San Francisco, it’s not... it’s not always worth it. I saw, okay, I saw that city fall apart because a guy wanted to represent us and wanted to make things better and it didn’t work. It didn’t work and he died, and other people died. Okay? You can’t understand that, he can’t understand that, I was just a fucking kid myself, and it was terrifying. It... I can’t... do. That whole thing. Boyfriends and whatever, I mean... what’s even the point?”

To his credit, Spencer sits quietly, and listens. Even after Dallon has trailed off, Spencer stays silent, allowing everything to sink in. Finally, he gets up, yawns, reaches behind Dallon to pull a blanket off the back of the couch.

“Go to sleep,” he says, guiding Dallon to lie back down, spreading the blanket over him. “If you feel sick, the bathroom’s right there, and I’m the first door to the right upstairs. Help yourself to water or anything if you want, but please, Dallon,” and he sounds so sincere, looks genuinely concerned, “just sleep for now. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dallon responds meekly, and he’s already dead to the world by the time Spencer vanishes up the stairs. 

\-----

A softer, gentler hand brushes his forehead, pulls the blanket back up under his chin, and he blinks his eyes open, whines at the sunlight through the window. Someone giggles, girlish and affectionate, and he tries again, sees a familiar female face, though her red hair is flat now, and she’s wearing a t-shirt he’s seen on Spencer before, and he wants to smile at her, but finds it’s hard enough just to say, “Linda?”

She seems pleased, and brushes his hair back again before kissing his forehead. “Hope you feel better, Dallon,” she whispers, as Spencer appears and escorts her out. Their good-bye is long enough for Dallon to force himself to sit up, stand up, and stumble towards the kitchen, where he can smell coffee, and nothing sounds better than some coffee right now.

And he’s right: Spencer’s roommate is in the kitchen by the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, and he glances up and grins when he sees Dallon in the archway. “Hey, you survived!”

Dallon nods and reaches for the coffee, but when he stumbles, the roommate laughs, and shoves his cup into Dallon’s hand. “You need it more than I do, brother,” he says. “What’s your name?”

Dallon takes a drink before he responds, “Dallon. I...” he coughs, “I work with Spencer.”

“I’m Ryan. Good to see Spin has friends besides me and Linda, I guess!” But he stops laughing when Spencer appears in the archway and glares at him. “Jesus, I’m just kidding.”

“Go upstairs, I need to talk to Dallon.”

“You’re not my mother, Spencer.” But after Ryan makes himself another cup of coffee, he disappears upstairs, leaving Spencer and Dallon alone in the morning sunlight.

“I didn’t know you were still seeing Linda,” Dallon mumbles, sipping at his drink, trying to remember what happened after he ended up here, hoping it didn’t go the way he thinks it did. 

Spencer shrugs, pulls a half-gallon of milk from the fridge and takes a drink. “It was casual until last night.” He smiles slightly. “I guess you made a case for making things official before it’s too late.”  
Dallon bites his lip and leans against the counter. “So I did tell you.”

“Yeah.” When Dallon grimaces, Spencer smiles wider and shakes his head. “But don’t worry about it, I won’t tell anyone. And I’m not going to kick your ass or anything like that either. Friends don’t do that.” Dallon blinks at him in surprise. Spencer continues, “In fact, I wish you’d have told me sooner. I understand why you didn’t, but... friends are supposed to talk about this stuff.” He takes another drink of milk before putting the carton back in the fridge. “I should’ve told you I was still messing around with Linda too. The way I see it... it’s the same thing. So we’re even now. No more secrets. Okay?”

Dallon never expected a reaction like this. Never expected support and understanding. All he can do is stare at Spencer over the rim of his cup, too surprised to respond. Spencer watches him back for a while before sighing.

“It comes down to this, Dallon. I’m not sure how I feel about the gay thing. I’ve never really thought about it before, but... you are my friend. And what you do behind closed doors can’t change that.”

All Dallon can say is, “Thank you.” Because with those words, just by telling Dallon that it’s okay to lean on him, that he won’t treat Dallon differently just because he’s attracted to men, Spencer has lifted a weight off Dallon’s shoulders. All the fear he’s been harboring since he left San Francisco starts to drift away, and he realizes that maybe, maybe a difference is being made. Slowly, but surely. And if he can tell Spencer and come out okay on the other side, then maybe he can start telling other people he loves too.

There’s just one more decision left to make, and Dallon decides to take the plunge, to ask Spencer’s advice. “What... what do you think I should do? About...” He’s still pretty sure that even if Spencer hasn’t figured out who Dallon is talking about, he will very soon, but he can’t bring himself to say the name anyway. 

“‘Him?’” Spencer offers, smirking slightly. “Well... do you care about him?”

Fuck it. Why not lay it all out there while it’s still okay to do so? “I think I love him, Spencer.”

Surprise dawns on Spencer’s face, and after a long, dreadful moment, he reaches over and puts a hand on Dallon’s shoulder. “Then what the hell are you bothering to ask me for? Go get him.”

Dallon hesitates, aware that what Spencer now knows may have changed certain things, but then he can’t help himself, and he pulls Spencer into a hug. Spencer stiffens under his touch and stutters out, “Uh... I’m not ‘him,’ am I?” Dallon laughs and shakes his head. “Oh. Well. All right.” And Spencer hugs him back.

Dallon never dreamed he’d have it so good.

\-----

As soon as Dallon gets home, he fetches Breezy’s breakfast, then picks up the phone, dials his brother’s number, and slides to the floor with the receiver to his ear.

“Hey, Jordan, it’s Dal. Are you busy? I... I kind of wanted to talk to you about something.”

\------

On Monday, after work, after rehearsal, when Brendon comes downstairs to lock-up, Dallon is the only one waiting for him. He hesitates at the bottom of the staircase, glancing around as if he hopes someone will come to break up the tension, and Dallon puts his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet around.

“I told the other guys I’d wait for you,” he explains finally. Brendon has the warehouse keys held close to his chest, as if to protect himself. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“So talk,” Brendon demands, but Dallon shakes his head.

“Come home with me,” he asks. “I think it’s time you met Breezy.”

Once everything is locked up and they start their walk together, Dallon immediately attempts to break the ice. “I called my brother on Saturday.”

Brendon glances at him, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I came out to him.”

This makes Brendon pause. “... And?” 

“And... it wasn’t perfect. He doesn’t understand, and what he does understand he won’t condone. But. He wasn’t angry. And he invited me to come visit for my niece’s birthday in May.” Dallon smiles to think of it, and he fully intends to make it back to Utah in time, no matter how much it costs. “We’ve got time to change the rest. It’s still better than I hoped for.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Brendon asks cautiously, staring straight ahead. 

“Because I’m not going to be afraid anymore. And I don’t want you to be either.”

Brendon finally turns to look at him, his expression a combination of confusion and disgust. “Dallon, don’t preach to me. You-”

“I was wrong to treat you the way I treated you,” Dallon finishes for him, and Brendon’s expression falls. “And I’m sorry. You’re right. It was never established that we couldn’t be with other guys, and I shouldn’t have expected monogamy without telling you so.” 

Still confused, Brendon asks, “So now what? Suddenly you’re all zen and you’re going to teach me your ways? Wax-on, wax-off, sensei?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “If you want sex, just ask, don’t treat me like some punk kid you rescued from the gutter. This ain’t Karate Kid.”

“If I want sex, I don’t need to ask you,” Dallon frowns. “I can pick up guys just as easily as you can.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I did! Last Friday, I absolutely did. Gorgeous young punk, great abs, nice smile. Let him fuck me behind the building. It wasn’t awful-” but he stops recounting his experience with Tyler when he notices the expression on Brendon’s face. Red forehead, red ears, tight lips, tight jaw, furrowed brows. “Brendon?”

“I don’t care,” Brendon spits, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his eyes on the sidewalk. “Go sleep with all the young punks, I don’t give a fuck, Dallon, I don’t, I don’t, _I don’t_!”

Dallon stops walking, grabbing Brendon’s arm. They’re a block from his apartment now, but he can’t wait that long, he can hear the distress in Brendon’s voice and knows what must be starting to bubble up in the back of his mind. “Brendon, listen to me.”

“I don’t care, Dallon!” 

“No, _listen_!” He grabs Brendon’s other arm, pulls him as close as he dares in a public space. “He didn’t have your eyes. They came close, but... no one else has that sparkle.”

Brendon looks sufficiently stunned, and Dallon can feel all the fight going out of him, his muscles relaxing, and finally, he shakes Dallon off but remains where he stands. “Nate didn’t have your smile,” he confesses. “He was sweet, and handsome, and it was certainly a nice smile, but... no one else has that warmth.”

Of course, Dallon can’t help but smile at those words, and Brendon smiles back, his eyes aglow.  
   
They dart past the landlady at the front desk of Dallon’s building, and as soon as Dallon opens the door, Breezy is seated there, waiting, though she rears back a little when she sees Brendon. “Ignore her and all she’ll want is your attention,” Dallon advises, and Brendon takes it, walking past Breezy as if he never saw her, glancing over Dallon’s tiny apartment instead. “It’s not much, I know,” Dallon says, embarrassed. “But I can sleep here and eat here and that’s enough.”

“It’s fine,” Brendon responds with a shrug. “Have we talked about everything you wanted to talk about?”

“Not quite.” Dallon takes Brendon’s hand and leads him to his bedroom, where there’s space for both of them to sit and be comfortable. “Am I too late to take you up on your offer?”

“Which one?” Brendon takes a seat on the edge of Dallon’s bed, and Dallon joins him, brushing his thumb over the back of Brendon’s hand.

“The one where you’re mine. And I’m your’s. And we don’t have to worry about Nates or Tylers or any other boys because we have each other.”

“So we’re just adding another rule to the list?” Brendon questions, and Dallon cringes, squeezes Brendon’s hand. 

“I was a scared, horny shithead when we made that arrangement. An arrangement is not what I want with you.” He clears his throat, laughs slightly. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before, so I don’t know if I’d be any good at it-” His words are cut short when Brendon places a finger over his lips, then slides that hand over Dallon’s cheek, and into his hair. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, pulling Dallon in for a kiss, and there it is. That feeling he’s been missing, that warmth and completeness, and he puts his hand on the back of Brendon’s neck, keeping him close, because he hadn’t even known how much he missed Brendon until right this moment, their lips and tongues sliding together, and this just isn’t close enough. Brendon offers no resistance when Dallon pulls him back onto the bed, both laying on their sides, hips and bellies and chests aligned.

Making out is enough to start with, to become reacquainted with one another. It’s been a few weeks, after all, and they’ve each had someone else in the meantime, and it’s nice to just feel one another, without any urgency, without any barriers. Because now, Dallon feels like it’s okay. Whatever it is he wants to do with Brendon, it’s okay, he doesn’t need to build up a wall to prevent emotions from getting involved. It’s a little too late for that anyway. 

Brendon nibbles at Dallon’s lower lip, then pulls out of the kiss, ducking when Dallon attempts to start again. “No, I want... I want to apologize again. For Nate.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Dallon mumbles, pressing his lips to Brendon’s neck when Brendon ducks him again.

“No, I do. I didn’t know it would hurt you. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“I’m kind of glad you did, though,” Dallon confesses, moving his hand under the back of Brendon’s shirt. “Don’t look at me that way! It woke me up to the fact that I had to share you, and if I had to share you, then I could lose you.” He undoes the top two buttons on Brendon’s shirt, kisses the collarbone as it’s revealed. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Brendon goes quiet again, accepting Dallon’s affection with soft, little gasps as he moves further south. “But I,” he tries again, when Dallon is positioned over his navel, “I should apologize for what happened with the band too, I never really... I’m really sorry I left you guys hanging, I shouldn’t have...” he trails off when Dallon moves back up his body, grabs his wrists and presses them back into the mattress. While Brendon’s eyes are wide and nervous, Dallon can feel Brendon’s erection against his thigh, and it’s certainly not backing down. He notes that for future reference, but kisses Brendon’s lips for reassurance anyway.

“I need you to understand something,” Dallon says firmly, pressing their foreheads together. Brendon’s breathing is slightly ragged, and he’s shifting under Dallon’s weight, but not pulling to free his hands. “I wasn’t upset that night because you left us hanging. I was upset because I want you to know what you’re worth. I wanted you to go up there and realize that you are an incredibly talented musician, and you’re destined for far better things than ‘warehouse manager.’ I need you to know that. These aren’t my opinions, they’re facts. Please. Understand that you’re worth more.”

Brendon takes a deep breath and nods quickly. “Dallon?”

“Yeah?”

Brendon chews on his lower lip. “Blow me?”

And Dallon laughs, nuzzling at Brendon’s nose, moving his hands down to undo Brendon’s slacks. “As you wish.”   
Brendon is more responsive than usual, when Dallon’s mouth slides over his cock, taking one of Dallon’s hands and intertwining their fingers, gripping and tugging on Dallon’s hair, and Dallon’s never heard him make noises like that before. It reaches a point where Dallon has to stop and ignore Brendon’s protests to tell him to shush. “These walls are so thin I’ve gotten complaints about Breezy meowing during the day, and my landlady would love an excuse to kick me out-” but Brendon grabs his head, pulls him up for an intense kiss, sighing against his skin.

“I think,” Brendon muses, “you should fuck me.”

“I think,” Dallon responds, “you shouldn’t make noise.”

Brendon smirks and kisses him again. “I’ll try.”

There comes a brief moment of panic when Dallon remembers how very, very long it’s been since he’s brought someone home like this, but Brendon still has a few condoms tucked in his wallet, and Dallon has a small bottle of lube left in his bedside cabinet, though he hasn’t had much use for it since he met Brendon.

They end up on their sides, Dallon’s chest pressed against Brendon’s sharp shoulderblades, his lips on the back of Brendon’s ear. He takes his time, slowly working his way inside, although Brendon is impatient and responsive, pushing back against Dallon. Brendon’s not normally like this, and it’s so sexy Dallon almost can’t stand it, writhing warmth and desperate reaching, to grab Dallon’s ass or thigh, to try and pull him closer, faster. But Dallon wants to take it slow, wants to imprint himself on Brendon and make this moment memorable.   
To his credit, Brendon manages to stay quiet. He moans softly when Dallon finally begins an agonizing rhythm, and gasps on occasion, usually accompanied by Brendon’s fingernails digging into the tender skin on Dallon’s thigh, but overall he keeps himself in check, and Dallon manages to do the same, his mouth secured on the nape of Brendon’s neck.

Dallon slides a hand down Brendon’s torso, gripping his cock and starting to stroke him, matching the rhythm of his own thrusts, but Brendon whimpers, turning his head, “No,” he gasps, batting Dallon’s hand away, “No, you first.”

“What,” Dallon groans, sliding his other hand around Brendon’s neck, and their lips meet sloppily, wetly, briefly, before Brendon gasps again, arching his back.

“You come first, I want you to, I want to feel you,” and his breath is hot against Dallon’s chin, “grab me, take me, just...” but he trails off, taking a deep, slow breath as Dallon mouths at his cheek, his ear, and starts to thrust faster, his hand pressed firmly against Brendon’s stomach. By the time Brendon’s breath is released back into the air, Dallon’s teeth are digging into the soft curve of his shoulder, grunting into pale skin as he comes so hard he sees white, grinding into Brendon even as his peak fades into afterglow, just to hold onto that moment a few seconds longer. It’s never been so good.

“Bren,” he pants, again pressing his lips to the shell of Brendon’s ear, “Bren, Bren, Brendon, I need to tell you-”

“You said not to make noise,” Brendon shoots back in a whisper, chuckling to himself as he guides Dallon’s hand back to his cock, “don’t pull out.”

Dallon complies with both requests, nuzzling his nose into Brendon’s shoulder as he uses his thumb to pay special attention to the head of Brendon’s dick. “No, I want you to know-”

“Don’t-... ah, don’t make noise,” Brendon stutters, “you don’t have to make noise.”

For someone who misread Dallon’s attempts at legitimizing their relationship before, Brendon now seems to have figured out exactly where they stand, and exactly what that means. Maybe it doesn’t need to be said. At least not in this moment. 

Instead, Dallon kisses the patch of skin just under Brendon’s ear, to distract him as he pulls out, discards the condom, lays Brendon on his back. Brendon whimpers in protest, though his pout quickly becomes a smile and a sigh after Dallon’s lips have, once again, sheathed the head of his cock. He comes within seconds, his fingers in Dallon’s hair, and Dallon swallows it all, his hands leading the way back up Brendon’s torso. Dallon’s lips follow their trail, until he’s cupped Brendon’s neck in his hand and they’re kissing again, lazy and sweet and completely indulgent. 

They fully intertwine themselves as the kisses fade out, and Dallon is half-asleep, his face buried in Brendon’s shoulder, when suddenly all that warmth disappears, and Dallon opens his eyes to see Brendon on the edge of the bed, pulling his boxers back on. “What are you...?”

“I need to feed Sarah,” Brendon whispers, “and I have papers at home that I need to bring in tomorrow anyway.”  
Dallon sits up on his elbows, watching as Brendon gets redressed. He’s done this to Brendon dozens of times now, gotten dressed and left with a kiss before he could be seduced by sleep. It was never easy, but he’s never been on this side of it before either. And now that they’ve taken that next step, solidified their status, Dallon doesn’t want to play by his own rules anymore. 

“You don’t have to leave,” he mumbles, tugging the blanket up to his waist. “I mean, we don’t have those rules anymore...”

Brendon laughs softly, putting his hands on his hips as he watches Dallon. “I didn’t say it was the rules. I said my cat hasn’t been fed since this morning, and I need to move some papers from home to the office. Angel,” and Dallon’s heart starts to flutter even before his head recognizes the affectionate name, “even if we are together, we still have to be careful.”

Dallon blinks at him, then extends a hand out to him. “Can you feed Sarah and come back, or something?” Brendon takes the offered hand, kisses the knuckles, even as he says:

“Don’t be clingy, Dallon, it’s unattractive.”

Brendon can make that claim the rest of their lives, and Dallon will always smile, will never take it seriously. “I just... okay. Then. We should talk about moving in together.”

Brendon raises his eyebrows, doesn’t take his eyes off Dallon’s. “So soon?”

“It’ll make things easier, won’t it? If we’re roommates?”

After a pause, Brendon starts to smile. He leans over to brush his lips against Dallon’s forehead. “Can we introduce Breezy and Sarah tomorrow? I have a carrier, so I can bring Sarah over here after work. And... we can talk about the rest of it too.”

Dallon nods slowly, sleep starting to take over once again. “Kiss me,” he demands, and after Brendon obliges, “Be safe, okay?”

Brendon grins, brushing hair out of Dallon’s face. “Okay, angel.”

“I love you.”

Brendon stops. Stares. And Dallon just smiles sleepily, accepts another kiss, rests his hands on Brendon's waist when Brendon climbs into his lap.

"I told you you didn't have to say that," Brendon mumbles against his lips just before Dallon falls back onto the bed, and they make love again. 

\-----

Pretending that everything is normal is harder than Dallon expected. Once Brendon brings Sarah over, and the cats start to get used to each other, it becomes easier to make up for lost time, and Brendon becomes very comfortable in Dallon’s apartment. They agree to start looking for apartments together, since Dallon has no lease and Brendon’s will be up in May, and they agree that if Dallon’s landlady discovers what they’re up to and kicks him out, he and Breezy can stay with Brendon as guests. 

Work is slightly more difficult. They’re good at hiding this secret by now, but it’s hard not to smile at each other every time their eyes meet. Which is often. And Brendon comes to visit during lunch more often, though he makes a point not to sit next to Dallon. Still, Dallon tends to wonder if their co-workers are picking up on what’s happening between them, which is why he’s so surprised by Spencer’s anger when Dallon asks if Brendon can rejoin the band.

“He already ditched us once, you want to give him the chance to do it again?”

“He was just nervous! But I think he’s better now. He just wants to try,” Dallon pleads. Brendon is still upstairs doing paperwork while the band sets up for rehearsal. “Please.”

“I just... after he...you still want him back? _Him_?!” Spencer snaps, just before his expression changes, his blue eyes wide as he stares at Dallon. “... ‘Him.’ Oh. _Oh_.”

Dallon blushes, glancing at Patrick, who has his back turned to them as he adjusts the settings on his amp. “It seriously took you this long to figure that out?”

“Hey, I don’t look at guys and think, ‘I wonder if he sucks cock,’ okay?” Spencer adjusts the collar of his shirt, and clears his throat. “Sometimes I still forget that you do.” Spencer pauses. Makes a face. Shudders. “I’ll never get used to that, actually, it’s probably better if I don’t think about it.”

Dallon grins and shrugs. “Whatever makes you happy. Now, should I go get Brendon or not?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, and he turns to shout at Patrick, “Hey! Brendon wants to come back, should we let him?”

Patrick’s face brightens immediately. “Absolutely! I’m sorry, Dal, your voice is great, but Brendon brings so much more range to the table, and he actually knows how to use that synth! We need to change our setlist as it is, I think people are starting to get bored.”

Spencer starts to protest, but Dallon is already halfway up the stairs, shouting Brendon’s name. And Brendon emerges from his office with a smile that leaves Dallon weak in the knees, and it can only be a miracle that gets him back to the floor.

As Brendon sets up an extra mic, discusses the new songs with Patrick, Spencer sidles up next to Dallon and hums under his breath. 

“What?” Dallon prompts.

Spencer shrugs. “Just... trying to get used to it.”

“Thought you just said you never would?”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

Dallon smiles, but doesn’t respond.

 

\------

 

Saturday night, Brendon once again joins the band in the supply closet at the bar, and while his face is pale and his hands shake, he still manages to smile, to keep himself from collapsing under the weight of his own self-doubt. When Spencer takes Patrick out to get a quick drink, Dallon seizes the opportunity to take one of Brendon’s shaking hands in his own, place the other on the back of Brendon’s neck. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine,” Brendon answers with a small smile.

“Don’t lie. You still don’t have to do this. I mean, Spencer will probably never forgive either one of us if you bail again,” Dallon smirks, his thumb brushing Brendon’s hairline, “but that still doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

“I want to,” Brendon murmurs, leaning in and sliding his hands over Dallon’s shoulders. “I want to try. If you think I can do it, maybe I can. So don’t baby me,” he presses a quick kiss to Dallon’s mouth. “I can take care of myself.”

“Sometimes,” Dallon teases, before pulling Brendon flush against him, kissing him again. This is risky behavior, but the affection seems to drain all of Brendon’s tension. His grip is firm, his breathing slows, and Dallon can feel the smile against his own. That this is so easy just indicates how much better Brendon is these days; that fierce and capable young man he’d seen outside Brendon’s gate has been appearing more often, and all those little things that Dallon hadn’t noticed he’d noticed are changing as well. If Brendon can just start to see himself the way Dallon sees him-

The door opens, and Brendon pulls away with a gasp, but it’s not quite fast enough for Eric not to notice the last seconds of their grasp, their reddened faces. At first, Eric just raises his eyebrows, while Brendon and Dallon stand still as statues, waiting for judgement. Then Eric shrugs, pulls the cigarette from between his lips and exhales smoke into the stagnant air. 

“I’m down with the queers,” he says, and Dallon relaxes immediately, sees Brendon’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “The world needs all the love it can get.”

“Th-thank you,” Brendon manages. “You won’t...?”

“Tell anybody? Eh, who cares?” Eric takes another drag of his cigarette, snuffs it out against the door frame. “I just need anybody who’s performing tonight to get on stage.”

Brendon has a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck by the time they reach the stage, and Spencer is still eyeing him suspiciously, but Dallon is the only one who notices; Brendon seems more focused on the cheering crowd of people before him. It’s not a large crowd by any means, easily less than a hundred people, but Brendon has an iron grip on his microphone, his breathing ragged. Dallon, doing the final tuning on his bass, wanders over and quietly points out Linda in the front row. Her smile is wide and proud, “and she wants you to succeed. And so does Patrick. And Spencer. And Eric. And me. You can do this.” Brendon turns to look at him and swallows, and Dallon gives him an encouraging grin. “Ready?” 

Brendon takes a step back, reaches for his bottle of water and takes a long drink. “Yeah,” he breathes, after draining half the bottle. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Dallon moves back to his own microphone, plucking the strings of his bass. “Hey, welcome back,” he addresses the crowd. “So you guys know me and Patrick and Spencer by now, but this kid up here,” he points at Brendon and grins; Brendon tries to grin back. “That’s Brendon, and he’s gonna knock your socks off, okay?”

Applause scatters, and chairs scrape the floor as a group of people hurry to claim their space on the dance floor while Spencer taps out a rhythm. Dallon momentarily panics, wonders if they should’ve opened with a song with a longer intro, worries that Brendon will miss his almost instantaneous cue... but all for nothing. When Patrick hits his first note, Brendon is breathing in to sing:

“ _[Josie’s on a vacation far away](http://youtu.be/4N1iwQxiHrs), come around and talk it over._ ” No disasters yet; Brendon squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, starts to smile more clearly. “ _So many things that I want to say_ ,” he turns to smirk at Dallon, and Dallon can’t help laughing in relief. “ _You know I like my girls a little bit older. I just wanna use your love tonight._ ”

Dallon and Patrick join him in harmony on the next line: “ _I don’t wanna lose your love tonight._ ”

And it works. The whole set-up, it works. Brendon fills out all the things that were missing before, his stronger voice and wider range, his synth spreading out to take care of the spaces between guitar and bass. By the third song, Brendon has found his confidence, dancing around the stage as he sings, “ _[Aye, aye, aye](http://youtu.be/zi4MOA_1MYA), you huggin’ up the big monkey man!_ ” This is exactly what Dallon has been looking for for so long. This energy, this camaraderie, and, more than anything, someone he can trust implicitly. He glances back at Spencer, sees a grin hidden amongst the tom hits and cymbal crashes. Dallon has two people he can trust now, and that’s two more than he had a few months ago. And he’s up here performing before a grateful crowd, with a beautiful bass all his own, and Brendon turns to smile at him and the world falls apart and rearranges itself around this moment. Dallon will never be the same person he was before, will never look at the world the same way he did yesterday. This is his new life, and he welcomes it with open arms.

 

\-----

 

Everything is good for a little while longer. Brendon and Dallon continue writing songs together, late into the night, until one or the other has to go home, though by this point leaving is more to avoid gossip than anything else. They know that once they move in together, they won’t have to worry so much about such details. 

After proving himself such a valuable asset, Brendon has found Spencer being much kinder to him as well, and when Eric offers them extra money to perform on St. Patrick’s Day, Spencer is the first to start suggesting songs for Brendon to sing. Suddenly, it’s not uncommon to find the two of them together in that abandoned upstairs office, Spencer offering songs (“Three Little Birds?”), and Brendon proving that he can sing them (“ _[Every little thing is gonna be all right!](http://youtu.be/kgJ1ZEuigFk)_ ”).  
One morning, as Dallon is clocking in, he notices that the crowd of co-workers around him is quieter, humming with uncertainty and confusion. “What’s going on?” he murmurs to Pete, who has replaced his usual toothy smile with a wrinkled nose and a frown.

“There’s a couple corporate guys upstairs right now. Apparently we’re supposed to wait for them to speak to us before we get to work.” Pete glances around, then leans in closer. “Guys are saying they saw Brendon heading out as they were coming in. Do you think he’s sick?”

Brendon hadn’t seemed sick last night. In fact, after dinner he’d been downright energetic, throwing a jingling ball around his apartment to try and get a peevy, visiting Breezy to play with Sarah. When it became clear that Breezy was content to sit atop his couch and stare at the wall, Brendon turned his vigorous attentions to Dallon instead. But Dallon can’t tell Pete about that, and he’s pretty sure their honeymoon-esque contentment would only be worse. Either way, even if Brendon did suddenly get sick, Dallon’s not sure a cold is serious enough to warrant the trio of gray-haired men in suits that are descending the staircase now. 

They stand above the men, in the same place Brendon stood only a few months ago when he took over, and introduce themselves, unfamiliar names with long titles. They then explain that there has been “an issue” with Brendon, and while everyone should attempt to work as normal, keep the trucks on schedule, they will be mingling among them and asking a few casual questions. “No one is in any sort of trouble!” insists the one with the jade-green tie. “We’re just trying to get some information.”

There are more unhappy murmurs amongst the crowd once they’re released, which relieves Dallon somewhat. Brendon is well-liked here, while the establishment is not, and even as anxiety starts to gnaw in the back of Dallon’s brain, he knows that the guys will stick up for Brendon as best they can.

As the morning drags on, the suits flutter around the sweating, toiling masses, like songbirds amongst seagulls. They attempt to chat with the men on the docks, the boys building pallets, even the truck drivers are subject to questions. Dallon, filling boxes, tries to watch the docks through the shelves, but Spencer hisses at him to keep his head down and keep working. 

When the lunch whistle blows, Dallon, Patrick and Spencer attempt to escape upstairs, hoping to make a plan of action in case any of them is questioned about the band, but the suits are waiting for them at the top of the stairs. The one with the piano key necktie smiles wide, and a tremor of distrust works down Dallon’s spine. “Just the men we were looking for!” he says, his voice overly friendly. “Heard through the grapevine that Brendon would eat up here with you three, is that right?”

No one answers. It’s obvious that they don’t need to. Piano Key’s smile drops slightly, and he gestures to Spencer. “We want to talk to you one by one, is that alright? You two,” he gestures to Patrick and Dallon, “stay right here, we’ll be right back with your friend.”

Spencer winces, glancing back at Dallon, who can only shrug in response. It’s obvious that someone ratted out the band, and now they’re all up shit creek without a paddle. The suits shuffle Spencer into the empty office, and Patrick and Dallon sit on the floor to quietly wait their turn.

Fraternization is forbidden, by company policy, but it’s a policy that has always been flouted, so Dallon’s not sure what all the fuss could be about. That gnawing anxiety is worse now, trembling down his neck and into his shoulders and arms, and his mind keeps going back to the fact that Brendon was sent home. If this was about the band, why send Brendon home? Why question the whole floor, and why separate them for further discussion? Dallon swallows, and tries not to fear the worst. 

Finally, the door opens and Spencer reappears. He doesn’t look at his friends, turning to head back down the staircase as Patrick rises to his feet and follows the suits back into the office. Dallon notices that those higher ups aren’t smiling quite so brightly anymore, but as soon as the door is closed once again, he hears Spencer running back up the staircase, kneeling down in front of him. He looks panicked now, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “Spin, what’s-”

“Watch what you fucking say in there, okay?” Spencer whispers, and before Dallon can respond, “They asked all about what kind of relationship I had with Brendon, how well I knew him... they don’t fucking care about the band, okay, I confessed to that and they waved it off, but they wanted to know if I had ever seen Brendon behaving oddly with another employee.” Spencer pauses to take a breath, to swallow, to put a hand on Dallon’s shoulder. “I think they know about Brendon. But they don’t know about _you_.”

“Know about...” Dallon tries to quell his panic, grips the wall to climb to his feet. “There’s... there’s no way! You’re the only one that knows!”

“And I never told a soul, Dallon, I swear,” and Spencer looks earnest, has never treated Dallon differently or proven himself to be so cruel, so Dallon takes him at his word. “So I don’t know how they found out about him. I just... I want you to be prepared. I think it’s too late for Brendon, but you can still save your own ass.”

Oh God. It’s what Dallon was most afraid of. Brendon hasn’t shown any signs of anxiety for a while now, has proven that he knows how to fight it, but Dallon can’t help worrying about how he would react to this entire situation. Three men from the company waiting for him, waiting to harass and humiliate him before sending him packing before the earliest employees can even find their punch cards. And something else sparks in Dallon’s stomach, something hot and angry. Vengeance for Brendon or a desire to stand for something, for once? “Maybe I should tell them the truth,” he says in a low voice, and Spencer’s eyes widen. “I mean, fuck them. Brendon was doing a great job, and they’re going to throw him out anyway? Wasn’t there a guy that launched a lawsuit over something like this last year? That’s just...” He runs his hands through his hair and glances at the door. “I’ve spent a long time hiding this and pretending it’s not there, to try and save my own ass. Maybe it’s time to give up on that. Start being me, and fuck the rest of it.”

Spencer takes a deep breath, rubs his temples with one hand. “Dal, if... if you want to start doing that whole pride thing, y’know, whatever. I’m not asking you to stop being you. I’m asking you to be smart about this.”

“What’s the use of being smart about it if I’m just throwing us under the bus?”

“You’re throwing yourselves under the bus if you lose this job!” Spencer hisses. “Jesus Christ, Dallon! Standing up for what you believe in is all well and good, but you need to be practical! They don’t know who Brendon was with. I don’t think they even know for sure that he’s with somebody in the company, they may just be trying to root out all the fags. Brendon didn’t rat you out.”

“He’d try to protect me, obviously-”

“Exactly.” Spencer meets Dallon’s eyes, his jaw tight. “If you go in there and try to make some sort of point, you’re going to lose your job too. And then what? _Both_ of you lose your apartments? _Both_ of you get booted out on the street to starve? But I mean, hey. At least you did the _noble_ thing.”

At first, Dallon wants to continue to argue his point, but he can’t think of a rebuttal. It’s hard enough to get by as it is, and yes, it’ll be even harder if both he and Brendon are living off his wages. But money makes the world go ‘round, especially these days, and even Dallon’s pittance is better than nothing. 

“I’m just tired of being afraid,” Dallon says finally, staring at the floor. Spencer grips his shoulder again, shaking his head.

“In a perfect world, you wouldn’t have to be. But this isn’t a John Hughes film, Dallon. This ain’t Sixteen Candles. Do you really think, in the real world, that Jake Ryan would be waiting to celebrate Sam’s birthday after her sister’s wedding? A grand gesture is all well and good in the movies, but this is real life, and you need to think about your options before you barge headfirst into a decision you can’t take back.”

The doorknob turns just then, and Spencer jets for the stairs without even offering a ‘good luck’ or ‘good bye.’ Patrick emerges alone, looking slightly dazed and completely confused as he turns to Dallon.

“Your turn,” he says, then in a quieter tone, leaning towards Dallon. “Hey, do you know why they would-”

“Don’t discuss this with other employees, Mr. Stump,” comes a sharp voice from within, and Patrick nods at Dallon, shuts the door once Dallon’s inside. 

“You’re Mr. Dallon Weekes, then, correct?” says the suit with the purple tie. They’re all seated behind the old desk that everyone eats at, papers covered in scribbles scattered in front of them. Dallon nods, and Purple Tie gestures for him to take the empty seat in front of him. “Then you were also in the band with Brendon?”

“Yes,” Dallon answers, fidgeting in his chair. He may not have to make a declaration of love; the sweat prickling on his scalp may give them all the answer they need. “Is that what this is all about?”

As Spencer had said, they wave his question off, barrelling through with their own agenda. “Have you ever seen Brendon behaving oddly, either at work or with the band?”

“No,” Dallon answers honestly, trying to force himself to look confused: tilt his head, furrow his brow. Maybe if he plays dumb they can get this over with and he can go check on Brendon. 

“He never... approached any of your fellow colleagues or the bar patrons or even you in a strange way?” And they must be desperate, because Piano Keys adds: “In a _queer_ way?”

“No,” Dallon says again, though this time it’s such a blatant lie that he’s having a hard time keeping himself from smirking. The suits confer with each other, murmuring with their heads bent low over the desk, and Dallon doesn’t like the way Jade Green keeps eyeing him. Finally, they raise their heads again, and Jade Green asks:

“You’re saying Brendon never approached you sexually, you or any of your co-workers? That you’ve heard of?”

Dallon is genuinely surprised that they would ask so directly, he doesn’t even have to fake it. A blush rises to his forehead as he swears, “Jesus, no. No, why would... why would you even ask that?”

“And you never saw him disappear after a show?” Piano Keys continues. “Never saw him interacting with another man, maybe slinking off somewhere-”

“No!” Dallon snaps. The thought makes him sick with jealousy, and he can only hope they interpret this as discomfort with gay sex. “No, he always... he just packs up his shit and goes home, I think.”

“You think? You’re not sure?” prods Purple Tie. Dallon shrugs.

“He lives near me. We walk the same route. I’d see him go in and out of this gated building...” Lying is easier than Dallon expected it to be, and the disappointment on their faces tells him they’re buying it. “Always alone, though.”

Jade Green throws his pen on the desk, and they all lean in to confer once again. They stay huddled together longer this time, their voices a little louder. From what Dallon overhears, it appears that Piano Keys and Purple Tie are ready to throw in the towel, but Jade Green is convinced that there is more here than immediately meets the eye. After a long conversation, Jade Green finally turns back to Dallon, scowling outright.

“We know Brendon Urie is a homosexual. We have proof that when he was at UCLA he was involved in a homosexual relationship, and we have a few men downstairs who claim they saw him... _embracing_ ,” he almost spits the word, “another man outside a bar downtown. And we have reason to suspect he is involved with an employee. But you’re telling me, in the past three months, working with him, playing in the band with him, living near him, you’ve never seen him do _anything_ out of the ordinary?”

Dallon has seen Brendon naked and writhing on the bedsheets, begging and gasping for more. He’s seen him playing with kittens and dancing to records and shouting along with Family Feud. He’s seen Brendon break down, and he’s helped Brendon stand back up. He’s seen Brendon make mistakes and attempt to atone for them. He’s seen Brendon create incredible melodies for words that Dallon put to paper. He’s seen Brendon at his worst, and hopes the best is still yet to come. 

He clears his throat and shrugs. “No,” and then, “Can I go now?”

Jade Green slumps in his chair. Piano Keys and Purple Tie glance at him warily, then turn back to Dallon.

“You may go.”

\-----  
 

Spencer forces Dallon to wait until the suits have packed up and rolled out of the parking lot before he punches out. Dallon remembers to thank Spencer, says to remind him that they need to discuss whether or not to tell Patrick the truth, but that conversation is going to have to wait until Dallon ensures that Brendon is okay. 

Dallon runs the whole way to Brendon’s apartment, crashing through the front gate and not bothering to close it behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and pounds on Brendon’s little door in that shadowy little corner, until Brendon finally answers. He looks exhausted, his collar askew, his eyes puffy and red. His hair is damp and fluffy, and both cats are gathered at his bare feet, looking up at Dallon in confusion, as if they know he’s home early. 

“What are you doing here?” Brendon asks in a hoarse voice, and Dallon pushes his way inside, closes the door so he can finally hold Brendon to his chest, squeezing him tight, his nose pressed to Brendon’s soft hair. 

“Wanted to check on you,” Dallon murmurs, his thumb rubbing the nape of Brendon’s neck. Brendon sniffles, and the tension rolls out of his body as he gives in to Dallon’s affection. “Find out what’s going on.”

“Were they still there?” comes Brendon’s muffled voice. “Jack, Robert and Mick?”

“Is that their names?” Dallon laughs softly. “Yeah. They talked to everybody. Interrogated Spencer, Patrick and me. But I think almost everyone took up for you.” He runs a hand through Brendon’s hair, lowers his face to kiss his neck. “They all like you, at the warehouse. You know that, right?”

Brendon suddenly pulls away, leaning against the far wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t matter. I still had to quit. Don’t touch me,” he snaps when Dallon reaches for him again, followed by a sigh when he sees Dallon’s dejected look. “They ambushed me this morning when I got there. Another warehouse had hired my ex, and he actually does a lot of that political stuff, so when they dug up his shit, mine came with it. They had no hard proof, but...” His arms drop as he stares out the far window, pointedly avoiding Dallon’s gaze. “But I was scared. They knew. They couldn’t prove it, so they couldn’t fire me, but they knew and they weren’t going to let me stay. So I quit.” He sniffles again, rubs a knuckle under his eye. “There’s nowhere else in town that’ll have me, once this gets out, so... so I called my mom.” 

Silence falls. Dallon’s shoulders tense in a crescendo, waiting for Brendon to bring resolution to his fears, but Brendon just keeps staring at the window, chewing on his lower lip. Dallon tears his eyes away from Brendon to look around, and realizes that Brendon has dragged his boxes back out, started putting away books and records and trinkets. Air leaves Dallon’s lungs in a rush, and his fingers clench into fists.

“Are you leaving?” he whispers. Brendon closes his eyes. “You can’t leave. After all this shit, you can’t leave me, Brendon.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Brendon’s voice breaks. “I can’t stay here. Mom... Mom said she’d let me stay with her until I found another job, she...” he worries his lip a little longer, then turns to Dallon with wet, shining eyes. “She sounded so disappointed.”

Dallon wants to yell at him. Wants to tell him, get used to it, mothers always have higher expectations for their sons. No man alive has ever truly made his mother happy. But he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, before saying, “I almost told those men everything about us. I thought about it, but Spencer talked me out of it. I... you can come live with me. I’ve still got my job, I can take care of us for a while, until you get back on your feet-”

“No,” and Brendon does that awful thing where he tries to smile, to pretend the tears on his face aren’t real or will disappear soon. “No, Dal, there’s nothing for me here. That warehouse is what holds this town together, and word travels fast. You,” he laughs, hollow and fake, “you know, even if I tried to be a fry cook at McDonald’s, they’d send me away. I can’t stay here, angel.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dallon snaps, his hands flying to his hair. “Don’t call me that, god, not when... Brendon, I thought you...”

“I _do_ ,” Brendon insists, reaching over to grip Dallon’s wrists, pull them to his chest. “I do love you, you know that. You’ve known that for _months_. And I don’t _want_ to leave, but I don’t have any other options!” He inhales deeply, presses dry lips to Dallon’s knuckles. “Las Vegas has lots of stores and businesses and it’s far enough away that no one will know what happened here. I’ll... I can do well there.”

“I could come with you,” Dallon mumbles.

“You’d leave Spencer, and Patrick? The band?” When Dallon doesn’t respond, Brendon’s grip on his hands tightens, his breath picking up. “Dallon, if you followed me out there, what would I tell my family?” he asks in a shaky voice. “We can’t both stay with my mom, and I-”

He stops when Dallon’s hand cups his cheek, guides him in for a soft kiss, and Brendon finally starts to sob when Dallon murmurs, “I’m tired of being afraid.”

“Dallon-”

“We can’t live in bubbles all our lives, Brendon. I love you. I’ve never said that to anyone who wasn’t family. And I don’t want to lose you.”

Brendon kisses him, so that Dallon can feel trembling lips against his own, as Brendon tries in vain to suppress his sobs. They pull each other close, gripping at skin and clothes, though for now the kiss says enough.

“”We’ll figure this out,” Dallon says, burying his face in Brendon’s neck, running a hand through his hair. “I promise.”

 

\-----

 

Sunlight. 

Dallon blinks his eyes open, and yawns. The light is wrong... did he oversleep? He glances over his shoulder to check his alarm clock, but only finds an empty corner, and an open closet door. He blinks again, confused, then hears a soft sigh in the bed next to him, and he remembers: this is Brendon’s apartment.   
Dallon slept over.

Brendon is still asleep, lying on his back, one arm slung over to Dallon’s side. His fingers would’ve been almost touching Dallon’s hair, before Dallon sat up. His hair is mussed, his lips full, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones, and Dallon smiles to himself, because it looks like nothing has ever hurt Brendon before. Sleeping peacefully, like nothing happened yesterday. Like they didn’t spend the evening sorting objects into boxes, safe-wrapping the TV, eating pizza on the floor, and avoiding the subject of what happens later. Brendon should always look so content. 

A soft meow drags Dallon’s gaze to the window, where Sarah is seated, twitching her tail at a pair of birds perched just on the other side of the glass. Dallon makes a hissing noise with his tongue, which sends her running. Bright sunlight, no more frost, birds on the windowsill... The little creatures flutter their feathers, and a third joins them, before they all start singing. Spring is on its way.

_This is my message to you..._

Dallon lays back down, shifting closer to Brendon, so he can press his hand to Brendon’s face, run a thumb over his soft, warm cheek. It’s not long before Brendon is responding, yawning as he opens his eyes. At first, he almost jerks back, surprised to see Dallon’s face waiting for him. This has never happened before, after all. But Dallon laughs, almost to himself. “Hey, beautiful,” he chuckles, “good morning.”

And there it is. The thing Dallon wants most in the world.

Brendon smiles.

_And you’re caught by surprise  
Could you wake up one day and realize  
The one that you want is right in front of your eyes?_   
**-[Right In Front of Your Eyes](http://youtu.be/T4sPQjwCfsg) (The Wedding Singer)**   


End Part Three  
End Winter 


	4. Epilogue (Grow Old With You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone who stuck with me through this story! It's one of the most personal stories I've ever written, and I really appreciate the positive feedback I've received. To thank you for that, and for your patience considering I didn't have a posting schedule, I'll let you in on a secret: I fully intended to write this story and leave the ending as you just read. I like open endings, and I felt like this one made a point: you never know where life will take you. Sometimes you just have to let go and see where you end up. All that said... I still knew what happened after the end. So my surprise, my gift to you, is that I've written an epilogue. Since I posted this story in two places, I decided that LJ would hold the story as I originally intended it, and AO3 will include the epilogue. So, while I have no problems with someone deciding to end it here and make up their own minds as to where Dallon and Brendon ended up, if you're curious as to what I saw for them after 1988, all you have to do is read below :) Thank you again for everything, hopefully the next project won't take another year! :)

**August, 1998**

“Hey, good show tonight!”

Dallon glances up from packing his bass to see a pair of tourists waving at him, and he smiles and waves back. “Thanks! Be safe and have fun!”

The couple wanders off, holding hands and giggling, and Dallon smiles after them until they disappear into the night. Then he turns behind him, starts to help Spencer pack up his kit. Ryan has already left, guitar in hand, to do whatever it is single, straight guys his age do in Vegas. Spencer and Dallon are not so free, though that’s not to say they’re kept on taut leashes either. “It’s still early,” Dallon says thoughtfully, unlocking the snare. “Do you want to go get a drink or something?”

“Can’t,” Spencer grunts, tying the lid shut on his kick drum. “Remember, Jack and Ben go back to school tomorrow, and Linda wants me home to help get everyone into bed.” He turns and smirks at Dallon. “I’m sure Brendon would prefer you to be home early too.”

Dallon smiles back at his friend. “Probably. Whatever, I need to get to the store before I go home anyway.”

“Well, hey,” Spencer starts lifting the kit onto his cart, ready to transport to the storage space the hotel had been kind enough to give him, out of sight of any curious tourists. “Maybe later this week? We could go out after work, have a few, bring Ryan along...”

“Sounds great, but Brendon has another business trip this week, so I can’t.”

“Back to Rhode Island?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s got that one,” Spencer grins, and Dallon grins back, close to bursting with pride. “They’ll say yes for sure. And hey, maybe I’ll just bring the kids over after school and we’ll do some grilling before it gets too cold. Keep you company.”

“I’d like that,” Dallon says honestly. “Do you need help getting back there, or-” But Spencer’s already waving him away, aiming his cart down the hallway. Between this makeshift stage where they perform cover songs three nights a week, and the food court at the back of the hotel, is a door that staff and crew can disappear into to do the things that tourists can’t see, and Spencer’s drum closet is tucked in that space. He takes off on his own, leaving Dallon to do the same.

It’s not quite dark yet, as Dallon climbs into his car. His bowtie and vest from work are strewn over the passenger seat, and he reminds himself to wash them tonight before bed; no one trusts a cage cashier with a wrinkled vest, and what good is a cage cashier if he can’t be trusted? Dallon likes his job, most of the time, or at least he likes it a lot better than warehouse work. He meets foreigners and celebrities, spends his mornings catering to the financial needs of the birthday girl from Seattle, the groom-to-be from South Dakota, and the anniversary celebration from New Hampshire. It’s not as glamorous or admirable as Brendon’s job, but Brendon has a degree or two, where Dallon has none. It could be worse.

Though sometimes, like now, on this quiet drive home, he wishes he could’ve helped Spencer out a little more. Sure, Spencer seems happy as a cage cashier too, and their cover band set at the Flamingo helps fill in the spaces between his wages and Linda’s job as a stylist. They can take care of themselves and their three boys, and Spencer swears that’s enough, but sometimes Dallon feels bad when he invites Spencer to his two-story home in Summerlin. After all, Spencer was the one who loaned him the money to move out here with Brendon, and while Dallon paid it back in full once he got his first job, and Spencer has never asked for more, hell, has refused it anytime it’s been offered, Dallon still feels indebted. 

And yes, there were rough times at first (was it really ten years ago? it seems like so much less and so much longer at the same time), with Brendon’s mother, but even Grace Urie ended up finding kindness through her confusion and disappointment. It probably wasn’t the best way to come out, showing up on her doorstep with Dallon in tow, but she warmed to him over the months they spent in her home. Long, mostly sexless months, sleeping in separate rooms... but neither Brendon nor Dallon was willing to push their luck. Still, she kept them safe and warm and fed until Brendon snagged a low-ranking management job at an off-strip hotel, and Dallon found another warehouse position. Dallon feels somewhat indebted to her too, and guilty that Grace has had the chance to get used to her son’s partner. His own mother has only started to remember Brendon’s name within the last so many years, and still doesn’t entirely understand their relationship. 

The same can’t be said for Dallon’s brothers; he smirks when he thinks of Weston’s last visit, the way he tormented Brendon in a way that only an older brother can. But Brendon has older brothers too, and has learned to take the torture for what it is: acceptance. 

Dallon knows that his guilt is stupid, that no one expects him to give anymore than he already has. But his life has transformed into something so blessed, and he’s not sure who he owes his thanks to.

Even the little things, like stopping at the grocery store, picking up bread, jelly, a few Lunchables, strawberry ice cream, it’s all so... easy. So normal. When did Dallon go from struggling every day, skipping meals just to make rent, to someone who actually makes enough to live, rather than just survive? And what did he do to deserve it? To deserve the nice house he pulls into every night, the pair of cars now parked in the garage, the black cat that stretches and greets him at the door, the-

“Come back to Earth, angel, before you float away.”

Brendon. Dallon drops his bag of groceries on the counter and smiles. Brendon, barefoot in sweatpants and an old Dinosaur Jr t-shirt, poring over his pitch and paperwork before he leaves Wednesday morning. While sometimes Dallon still wishes they could engage in music together again, that when Brendon went back to school he’d pursued an education in music rather than a Master’s degree, but he has to admit the hard work has paid off, and Brendon seems genuinely happy. He’s a conference consultant for New York, New York, one of the more recent additions to the Strip skyline, and he spends his days selling space and time at the hotel to conference organizers. He wishes he could be home more often, and Dallon usually wishes the same, but sometimes it seems to make these little moments all the better. Where Dallon can sit down at the kitchen table, kick his shoes off, playfully brush his ankle against Brendon’s.

“You’ve been daydreaming a lot lately,” Brendon comments after a kiss hello. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just getting old,” and he’s teasing but Brendon frowns, because the hair at Brendon’s temples is starting to turn silver, and it doesn’t matter that Dallon thinks it’s charming, or that Dallon’s face has started to round out, his forehead starting to wrinkle, because it’s simply not fair that Brendon be the first to get gray hair. “Don’t make that face, you know I’ll still love you when you’re old and fat.”

“You better,” Brendon grumbles, turning back to his paperwork. Dallon starts to get up, but Brendon continues, “and you might as well stay here because Mom will be back soon, and there’s nothing on TV except that fucking Lewinsky bullshit anyway.”

“Fair enough,” and Dallon drops back into his seat, brushing his fingertips through Brendon’s hair, even as Brendon tries to work. They’re able to sit in silence, patient and comfortable, with Breezy sleeping at their feet and Sarah staring out the windowsill nearby, and Dallon drops his hand after a long while to glance at the clock. “When will your mother be back? ‘Cause we need to-”

But he’s cut off by the front door opening, and a burst of commotion from the foyer. Brendon is up in an instant, and Dallon follows right behind as a little voice yells, “Dads! Daddy, look what Nana bought me!”

Dallon is the one who scoops up his daughter, kisses her head, shows proper admiration for the purple Mulan lunchbox in the little girl’s hand. “Is this for school tomorrow?” he asks her, as Brendon takes the little boy from his mother’s arms, bounces him gently. “Well you’re just going to make all the other kids jealous, aren’t you?”

“Yup!” she laughs, and Dallon never thought he’d love anyone as much as he loved Brendon, but that was before Sabrina and her bright brown eyes and her pitch-black curls, her strong little fingers even in infancy, and Dallon’s been wrapped around those from the start. And nuzzled into Brendon’s neck, a vision that makes Dallon’s heart swell every time, is plump and blond Elijah, almost a year old now. 

“Okay, okay,” Dallon interrupts Sabrina, sets her back on the floor. “Go say good night to Nana, ‘cause it’s time for a bath, then bed.” Immediately, Sabrina starts to pout, but Dallon is trying to learn how to say no to her, now that she’s old enough for school. “You’ve been out playing all day, you need a bath so you can be clean for all your new friends. Now go say good night.”

Sabrina makes her way over to Grace, to hug and kiss her goodbye, and Brendon leaves them to it, passing Elijah to Dallon’s shoulder, and this beautiful little family is one of those things that Dallon’s not sure he deserves. He and Brendon had to jump a lot of hoops and slip through a few loopholes to figure out how to adopt in Nevada, but it’s all worth it for Sabrina’s cheery giggle and Elijah’s soft, sleepy sighs. Bringing Sabrina into the picture had also been what brought Grace around completely, what helped Dallon’s mother start taking them seriously, and the arrival of Elijah had just brought more security, more involvement, more insistence on visits for the grandbabies. 

Once Grace has left, Dallon dresses Elijah in his pajamas, gently places him in his crib, sings him back to sleep. It’s Brendon’s turn to give Sabrina her bath, and they both emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of bubblegum-scented fog, Sabrina in her Pocahontas nightgown, which is getting to be too small for her now. Dallon smirks at Brendon’s damp appearance, and Sabrina laughs when Brendon insists on giving Dallon waterlogged hug. She’s far too worked up for bed, too excited about school in the morning, but Brendon takes her hand, guides her to her room, reads to her as Dallon watches from the doorway. Brendon had still been fairly young when they brought Sabrina home, and he had fallen back into his anxiety for a while, terrified of the little life in his hands. But after a few weeks, after some help from Dallon, and Spencer, and Linda, Brendon figured it all out, and now it’s as if he was born to do this. He creates voices for the characters, cuddles her close to his side, kisses her forehead once the last page is turned. 

“I love you, kitten,” Brendon whispers as he tucks Sabrina in, and she giggles once more, the happiest little girl in the world. “Sleep tight.”

“Love you too,” she murmurs, and her hand becomes a silhouette in the glow of her nightlight, just as Brendon closes her door.

Alone again. Dallon smiles at Brendon, who leans against the wall next to Sabrina’s door, and smiles back. “You look like you need a vacation,” Dallon suggests, and Brendon laughs softly. 

“Maybe we can go to Lake Mead next weekend, when I’m home,” he suggests with a yawn, then cuts off Dallon’s protest, “I know, I know, that’s not a real vacation. But now that Sabrina’s in school, we can’t just up and leave whenever we want.”

Dallon pauses, and takes a deep breath. “Our baby’s starting school tomorrow.”

“I know.” Brendon reaches across the hallway to take Dallon’s hand, pulling him closer. “Maybe we are getting old.”

“Well, she’s only five, it’s not like we’re shopping for colleges yet.”

“Yet,” but Brendon’s only teasing, and Dallon marvels over the sparkle that lingers in his eyes, and if he didn’t know better, he’d insist that Sabrina inherited that same glow. “Jesus,” Brendon breathes, “Think about it, though. Ten years ago, we weren’t even sure how to love each other, and look at us now.” He seems almost nervous, as if he’s afraid his whole life could be swept out from under him in an instant, and Dallon briefly wonders if Brendon is going to relapse again. “If one of us had boobs, we’d be featured on the cover of Parents Magazine.” Now Brendon goes quiet, reflecting, his fingers still clinging to Dallon’s. “How did we get here?”

And Dallon laughs. Kisses Brendon’s mouth, pulls him into a warm embrace, which Brendon immediately surrenders to. He ponders the same questions over and over, and by tomorrow morning will probably have forgotten the answer that suddenly seems so clear to him now. So he soaks it all in, this certainty, his kids safe and asleep nearby, the love of his life wrapped up in his arms, breathing warm and steady against his neck. Dallon Weekes is living the dream, and how the hell _did_ they get here?

“We worked for it,” he murmurs into Brendon’s ear, and he feels Brendon smile against his skin.

“We earned it,” Brendon agrees, and whatever tension was left in his muscles slowly releases itself, and once again, it’s just the two of them and their love. The only thing they can really be sure of. And it’s enough.

  
_So let me do the dishes in our kitchen sink_  
Put you to bed when you've had too much to drink  
Oh, I could be the man who grows old with you  
\- **[Grow Old With You](http://youtu.be/oWFMNfRw4p8) (The Wedding Singer)**  


**The End**


End file.
